


throne of flame, heart of ice

by m_barcelona



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, But only a little, Falling In Love, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Insecure Keith (Voltron), Insecure Lance (Voltron), Internalized Homophobia, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith and Shiro are Siblings, M/M, POV Keith (Voltron), Political Alliances, Prince Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-02-03 08:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12745047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_barcelona/pseuds/m_barcelona
Summary: Keith tries desperately to get rid of these thoughts, unbidden and wrong. He wants to forget those sparkling eyes and toned muscles. He wants to forget the bright smile, and the light dusting of freckles against tanned skin. He wants to forget the way that brilliant smile can make him feel, just for a moment, as if the weight of the world isn’t going to crush him. Heneedsto forget it. He has a duty now, to his kingdom and to his future wife –wife, the word still makes his heart feel like lead – and he won’t let anything distract him.Crown Prince Keith Kogane doesn't want to rule. He wasn't meant for the throne, but the loss of his eldest brother made him next in line. Now, with the threat of the Galra Empire drawing ever-nearer, Keith will be asked to make the ultimate sacrifice for his kingdom: give up his chance at ever finding happiness and marry the beautiful Princess Allura, or risk leaving his kingdom defenseless.Keith is prepared to stomp down his own feelings, as he always has, and accept the marriage with poise and grace. But things get complicated when he meets the blue-eyed stable boy, and begins to question everything he's ever known.





	1. one

Keith is standing on a balcony, gazing silently out into the dreary day, when a servant approaches to deliver a message from the king. The boy, still practically a child, hands Keith the small slip of paper, its fancy script summoning Keith to the great hall. He sighs deeply as the servant retreats, disappointed that his brief moment of peace has come to an end. 

He takes these moments of quiet whenever he can, trying to recall the days when he would play in these gardens as a child. The days when things were uncomplicated, when tranquility seemed expendable. He remembers when the castle grounds were filled with laughter, and when the shining summer days seemed as if they could go on forever. 

He takes one last breath of the clean, early-autumn air, and decides to delay just a moment longer. Soon the air will turn frigid with the coming of winter, and with it will come the death of the flowers and grasses that decorate the flourishing gardens of the castle courtyard. He always hates to watch it happen: the days shorten, the ponds freeze over, and all living things retreat into hiding, until nothing remains but the dark and the bitter cold for endless months until the sun finally begins to thaw the earth once more. Keith shakes off the impending melancholy, reminding himself that autumn has only just begun. 

With one more glance around the gardens, Keith turns on his heel and walks through the heavy wooden doors back into the castle, steeling himself for his upcoming meeting with the king. He has no doubt that he is going to be subjected to yet another political meeting, which have seemed to be increasing exponentially in frequency over the past several weeks. His boots make a steady _click-click-click_ against the polished marble floors, his steps never wavering despite his overwhelming desire to skip the meeting altogether, to go instead to his rooms, to the gardens, to anywhere else besides the hall with the long tables and hoards of advisors, shouting over each other with endless streams of words and yet never accomplishing anything, and all the while looking brazenly at Keith as if wondering why the young prince is even present. 

When Keith enters the great hall, however, it’s not a noisy political meeting he finds. 

Instead, his father stands alone at the head of the long table, intimidating in all his regal splendor. The elaborate crown on his head glints in the flickering light from the chandelier’s countless candles, the crown’s beauty contrasting with the rugged face of the king himself, dotted with stubble and marked from too many years spent in the sun. Keith’s blood runs cold at the sight of him standing there, with not another soul in sight. He tries to run through all his memories of recent days to figure out what he did wrong, but he comes up blank. He knows he can never be the perfect prince, that he can never live up to the standards set before him, but he had been trying harder than ever in the past few months. 

He had thought that, for once, he had finally been doing it right. 

When he slowly approaches the head of the table, Keith finds his father looking rather serious. The sound of Keith’s boots against the floor seems too loud in the deafening quiet of the room, echoing off the tall ceilings. Keith resists the urge to wipe his palms, which have broken out in a cold sweat. Instead, he gives the king a polite bow when he has reached the end of the table, even though every part of him is itching to run. The king gestures for Keith to take a seat, while he does the same. 

Heart thundering in his ears, Keith steadies his hands and smoothly takes his seat. Growing up in the castle has taught him to conceal even his most intense emotions. Memories of the lessons from his earliest years – the anger and scolding and punishments – serve as a constant reminder of the price of revealing his true feelings. 

Once both men have taken their seats, the king finally breaks the heavy silence. Keith’s pulse spikes at the intake of breath that precedes his father’s words, suddenly realizing that he might prefer the silence after all, but he maintains a neutral expression as the older man begins to speak. 

“As you know, the threat of the Galra grows to be more pressing with every passing day,” the king begins, not wasting time with pleasantries. Keith is well aware of the threat; it has been a major topic in the countless meetings of the recent weeks. He bites back the sarcastic remarks that come to mind, shoving them aside with practiced ease. A reckless part of him always tries to nudge its way in, urging him to speak his mind, but he holds his tongue and turns his thoughts to the matter at hand. He tries in vain to understand why he has been called to a private meeting to discuss these matters, but his pounding heart nevertheless begins to calm when he sees that he is in no immediate danger. 

“Yes, sir,” Keith responds when he sees that the king is expecting an acknowledgement. 

Satisfied by the succinct response, the man continues. “As the Galra Empire takes control of more kingdoms and the Emperor grows ever more powerful, our people grow more and more restless,” the king explains. “It is only a matter of time before our kingdom captures the attention of the Galra, and we’ve still no alliances powerful enough to protect us against this threat.” 

Keith, still unsure where his father is going with this, nods mutely. He wants to protest that their kingdom has the most skilled fighters in the known world, that they don’t need to rely on the strength of an allied kingdom to protect them, but knows better than to interrupt his father. Nevertheless, memories flash through his mind of life as a young boy, yearning to join the ranks of the distinguished Garrison. The best warriors in the world, living on his very own castle grounds; it had seemed like a dream to him, to be able to be so close to those fighters. He wanted to be the best of them one day, sure that he could join when he was older, but fate decreed that he must instead live the life of a politician. The life of a prince, and someday the life of a king. 

“As the crown prince of this kingdom, you carry the responsibility of forging such an alliance,” the king continues, voice unwavering despite the subtle hardening of his expression. “You must carry on the kingdom when I can no longer rule, and I fear that time may be fast approaching.” 

Keith drops his eyes to his lap, grief and shame sitting like a stone in his stomach. Although the king’s words weren’t inherently unkind, Keith can hear the unspoken message: _you must carry on the kingdom, but you are unfit. It wasn’t meant to be you._ Pushing these thoughts aside, locking them tightly away with all other thoughts of his lost brother and his own endless shortcomings, Keith tries to focus on the king’s words. He immediately regrets his brief show of emotion, and forces himself to meet his father’s eyes. He knows that even the slightest sign of weakness will not be tolerated. 

By the time he’s gotten his emotions under control, Keith begins to contemplate the king’s other words. Confusion overtakes him, and his thoughts begin to work in overdrive to decode the meaning behind his father’s statement about Keith taking the throne. He hardly has time to dwell on it before the king speaks again. 

“Our neighboring kingdom, Altea, is the perfect ally in this war,” the king continues, the new information piquing Keith’s attention and effectively distracting him from his previous train of thought. “They offer the protection of the mountains that border our two kingdoms, and have abundant farmland.” Keith’s heart begins to beat quickly again, but this time it’s not out of fear. Altea has hardly been discussed in the meetings that Keith has attended, although he agrees wholeheartedly that they would prove to be a valuable ally. Their kingdom is prosperous, and offers vast resources. 

Still, he wonders why this was brought up in a private meeting, rather than in the usual setting with all of the king’s top advisors present. He wonders why the king looks so grave, as if he is about to march off to war himself, although Keith knows that his father would never do something so dangerous. The discovery of a new potential ally should be a positive thing, and certainly something to discuss with all the key advisors of the kingdom. 

Anxiety begins to creep into the edges of his awareness, a soft warning in the back of his mind that _something isn’t right, something is wrong, something is off._

Keith wants to walk, to run, to jiggle his foot or tap his fingers against the ornate tabletop, anything to relieve the tightening in his chest, anything to escape the worry of what is going to come out of his father’s mouth next. The silence lengthens, and Keith’s anxiety only grows. He wants to shake the man’s shoulders and tell him to spit it out, to get to the point and explain what exactly this is about. He wants to demand some answers in this convoluted world of politics, where people dance around their words instead of being upfront about their intentions. 

Keith doesn’t do any of these things. His immaculate posture doesn’t budge an inch, and he meets his father’s gaze with a feigned nonchalance, as if the foreboding atmosphere has no effect on him. As if he can’t feel the chill in the air, a chill that has nothing to do with the turning of the season. He knows that a confrontation will solve nothing, and only serve to prove his father right about him. _Insolent boy, immature child, not fit to rule._ He refuses to play into his father’s game, to slip up and make yet another mistake. 

After a moment longer of studying Keith, as if testing to see if his deliberate obfuscation has yet drawn a reaction from his son, the king, seemingly satisfied with Keith’s politely interested bearing, continues speaking in an even tone, holding his son’s eyes as he delivers his next words. “Three days ago, the Galra waged a full-scale attack against Altea. King Alfor was murdered, and the majority of the royal family was wiped out. A quarter of the kingdom’s population was lost, but Altea ultimately resisted the invasion.” 

Keith feels as if the floor has dropped out from under him. The pounding of his heart disappears, replaced by the all-encompassing numb that comes only with a complete shutdown of the senses. He can’t believe his ears, sure that he misheard. His father delivered the news with such calm that Keith is certain that he must misunderstand. If their neighbor was attacked, the threat of the Galra is even more pressing than he had thought. Part of him, the part that knows that his father is not yet done with this conversation, tries to understand why their kingdom would want to ally with a neighbor that has been so badly weakened, but his distracted mind cannot fathom a reason. 

Before Keith has time to properly process this new information, his father speaks again. Keith hears it distantly at first, nothing but a whisper compared to the tumultuous thoughts demanding every ounce of his attention, trying desperately to make sense of this entire conversation. He manages to gather the gist of the king’s words, even if he isn’t actively listening: Princess Allura survived the attack, as well as her uncle Coran. Coran is to serve as Regent until Allura’s 21st birthday in the spring, when she is to become the next Queen of Altea. 

Keith numbly takes in the stream of information, filing it away with everything else to deal with later. But his father’s final words manage to penetrate the veil of grief and confusion that has overcome him, and they come to him in perfect clarity. 

“Keith,” the king says, leaning forward to demand his son’s full attention. “Altea is in desperate need of a secure alliance right now, and in need of a king to rule alongside Princess Allura once she takes the throne. When Allura Wimbelton reaches her 21st year, I will hand over our kingdom to you, and you will become the King of Marmora, free to marry the newly crowned queen.” The words hit Keith like a slap to the face, worse than any blow his father could land. Oblivious to the shock and pain that dances across Keith’s consciousness, the king continues his tirade. “Your marriage will cement an alliance between the kingdoms of Altea and Marmora for generations to come. The resources that remain in Altea will become ours, and our two kingdoms will become nearly invulnerable to the Galra.” 

_An arranged marriage._ The words come to Keith’s mind crystal clear, despite his inner turmoil. All other thoughts fade to a distant hum, dwarfed in comparison to this sudden announcement. 

He knew that he would one day have to marry, of course, but it was something that he had intentionally avoided thinking about. It seemed as distant as the grave, and potentially less desirable. His shock begins to fade into a painful clarity as a whole slew of realizations hits him at once, and one thought prevails above all: _this is very, very bad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all like it so far! this chapter was a lot of background information and world-building, but I hope it wasn't too terribly boring. please feel free to leave any thoughts/comments/questions/suggestions in the comments! the next chapter should be up within a week.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this chapter significantly longer than I had planned? yes. did I accidentally ignore my homework this week to get this done on time? maybe. (was it worth it? absolutely)

Keith hardly remembers leaving the great hall. 

Heart still thundering in his ears, he drifts down the too-bright corridors of the castle in a haze, barely registering where his feet are taking him. He hears the steady rhythm of his boots against the marble change into the distinct _tap-tap-tap_ against a stone path, and then fade to the muffled sound of a dirt trail; he feels the air change from the dusty interior of the castle to the slight chill of the late September day, then to the filtered breeze of gentle wind through trees. 

By the time he finally breaks free from his trance, he stands in front of the stables. The simple wooden exterior of the building seems a far friendlier sight to Keith than the rest of the castle, but equal in meticulous cleaning and upkeep. He’s surprised by his arrival in this secluded and distant part of the castle grounds, surrounded by trees and far out of sight of the palace itself. It occurs to him that he hasn’t ridden in months, and on the occasions when he does ride it’s always with a large group, always on display, always restrained and under harsh scrutiny. The near-constant demand of the meetings and princely duties has left little time for his usual training and recreation. The realization comes with a slight pinch of pain, a subtle reminder of what he’s lost. 

When he was younger, when there was little thought of preparing him for the throne, Keith spent countless hours with the horses. As the youngest child of the royal family, he had been spoiled and allowed to spend the days doing as he wished, which more often than not involved riding and grooming the castle’s many steeds. As his older brother began to grow and become more and more busy with his training for the throne, Keith turned to the stables to keep him occupied. The horses became his closest confidants, and the old stablemaster became like a father to him. 

Now that his brother’s responsibilities have fallen to him, Keith doesn’t have time for the horses anymore. 

Standing in front of the stables now, Keith feels something stir inside him. He feels the urge to jump on his horse and ride for miles, to go far away and never return. He tries to break free from that train of thought, used to denying his reckless urges. Something in his head is nagging him to go back to the castle, to fix the damage he’s done, to bow to the king and gracefully accept his duty. 

But something in his head is reckless. Something stronger than the part telling him to turn around. It’s the part that tells him to make sarcastic remarks and skip meetings and bare his emotions for all the world to see. This part is telling him to take a break from being the perfect prince. To go for a ride and let himself forget the world, just for a moment. 

To stop denying himself every semblance of happiness. To live his life for himself for once, rather than for his kingdom. 

Keith notes the position of the sun, calculating only an hour or so left of daylight. Enough time for a short ride, then back for dinner. He hears nothing but the sounds of the birds chirping in the towering trees above, the bustle of the castle far behind him. It seems as distant and unimportant as a dream when faced with the simple peace that surrounds him now. He studies the stable doors as if his life depends on it. A little ride couldn’t hurt, could it? 

With a deep breath, he opens the stable doors. 

As soon as he has entered, a familiar smell overwhelms his senses. The dusty aroma of the dirt floor and the bales of hay, mixed with the natural smell of the horses and the fresh air filtering through the open door, is immediately comforting to him. It smells like his childhood, full of lighthearted days playing all across the castle grounds. Memories come to him in staccato bursts: the pain of his knee when he scraped it falling out of a tree, the taste of the fresh water from the stream on the other end of the grounds, his own childlike voice, full of laughter and calling out for his older brother. 

The memories feel like flame, licking away at everything he has left, burning and all-consuming. He knows that it would be best to put it out now, to extinguish those flames before they turn everything he’s worked for to ashes. 

He shakes himself out of his thoughts, refusing to back out now, and approaches the stall that holds his horse, Red. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement in one of the other stalls, and he automatically glances over to see its cause. His breath catches in his throat at the sight that greets him, and his distracted mind takes in the details one at a time. 

He sees tanned skin and muscular arms, flexing with the strain of their current movement. He sees a turning head, careless and unworried about the way its movements appear to the outside world. He sees the sharp planes of a well-sculpted face, immaculate aside from a smattering of freckles, turning in his direction. He sees eyes, bright blue and surprised, blinking back at him. The boy drops suddenly into a low bow at the sight of his prince, and Keith is brought back to reality. 

When his brain finally decides to start functioning properly again, Keith is able to make sense of the situation. He has walked in on the stable boy shoveling hay for the horses, and _stared at him like an idiot._

Before Keith has time to react to his own foolishness, the boy has straightened from his bow and begins speaking in a slightly panicked voice. “Your Highness! I, uh, I wasn’t expecting you to come in today. They told me that you haven’t been riding lately and I just assumed, I mean, I just didn’t think that you would be coming in.” The words tumble out in a rush, and he visibly tries to compose himself before gathering his thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Should I prepare your horse?” He says the last with a polite smile, but is clearly still in shock from the appearance of the unexpected visitor. 

Keith is taken aback by the presence of this unknown boy in the place of the familiar stablemaster. “Where is Blaytz? Who are you?” He asks, voice harsher than he had intended. 

The other man’s smile wavers for just a moment, but rights itself so quickly that Keith almost wonders if he had imagined it. “Name’s Lance. The old man finally retired, I’m afraid,” he answers, subtly dusting the remnants of hay off of his clothing to the best of his ability. 

A feeling of loss, sudden and irrational, strikes Keith like an arrow. The old stablemaster had taught him how to ride all those years ago, and spent countless hours helping Keith perfect his technique. He had acted as a father figure to Keith, when his real father had been too wrapped up in the politics of running a kingdom. Keith is reminded again of how much he has been missing out on, cooped up in the palace for the past 4 years and training for a throne he never wanted. 

The stable boy leans against the wall and crosses his arms, seemingly recovered from his initial shock. “No offense, Your Highness, but you look like someone just told you that the world is ending tomorrow. I don’t wanna sound rude here, but is something wrong?” He doesn’t truly sound apologetic at all, but there’s also nothing malicious in his tone. Nevertheless, Keith is shocked at the boy’s bluntness. He’s never been spoken to this way, least of all by a common servant. But…Keith isn’t offended. He’s almost relived by this boy’s straightforward way of speaking, such a brilliant contrast to the way the politicians carefully craft every sentence to obscure their true intentions. Besides, the boy sounds genuinely curious, those ocean eyes glinting with a hint of concern. Keith finds himself wanting to spill all his secrets, to put all his insecurities in the open. 

But he knows better. He won’t let some servant undo the years of work he’s done, working ceaselessly to present a strong image to his kingdom in hopes that maybe, just maybe, he won’t let them down. 

Lance nevertheless seems to gather the gist of Keith’s thoughts, his features arranging themselves into a knowing look, and Keith is instantly uncomfortable by how easily this guy can read him. After so many years of concealing his feelings, Keith doesn’t like that Lance is able to decode his deeper emotions in a matter of seconds. “‘Heart of ice’ indeed, yeah?” Lance continues, undeterred by the prince’s silence. “I guess that nickname isn’t very accurate, after all.” 

Keith doesn’t bother trying to hide his quizzical expression, knowing that Lance would see his confusion anyway. As if reading his thoughts, the other boy cracks a small smile. “What, you haven’t heard that before? It’s a sort of, uh, nickname the people have for you. They say you have a heart of ice. That you don’t feel emotions like a normal person, or something. I guess the great Prince Keith has a few weaknesses after all.” His cocky smile seems to be taunting Keith, daring him to spill his secrets and prove the rumors false. 

Keith knows he shouldn’t be surprised by this description. He’s been working for years to achieve just that: a total suppression of his feelings. And yet the words fall harsh upon his ears, forcing him to face the reality of what he’s done. The weight of it crashes upon him, and he realizes how real the consequences of his decisions can be, especially as a figure in the public eye. A feeling begins to worm its way in, one that feels like the faintest echo of regret, and he tries to push it away as he always does. But this one resists. It seems to taunt him, to say _you did this to yourself, and you can’t run away this time._

And something, _something_ is telling him to hold onto it anyway, that it’s something he needs to feel. And maybe it’s the emotional turmoil of his conversation with his father, or his recent longing for simpler days, or even the taunting expression on the face of the boy in front of him, but Keith finds himself wanting to _talk_ , to let it all out, to say anything other than a false assurance that he’s fine, that he’s okay, that he’s perfectly happy. 

“I’m engaged,” Keith blurts out, his reckless side finally taking control. Lance’s eyes widen for a moment before his whole face lights up with a grin. 

“Congratulations!” He exclaims excitedly, then, realizing his audience, coughs nervously and says in a more formal tone, “uh, I mean… congratulations, Your Highness.” 

Keith rubs a hand over his face and lets out a huff of air, not allowing himself to throw any more of his baggage on this guy. He’s sure that he has said no more than ten total words to the stable boy in this whole encounter, and already feels as if he has said far too much. Even still, he wants to be frustrated that Lance isn’t understanding him, wants to shake the guy by the shoulders and make him realize the weight of the situation, but he has no way of communicating his thoughts. Keith can’t even begin find the proper words to describe his feelings about this wedding. How the thought of it makes his stomach turn and his skin crawl, or how it feels like his heart has been torn in half and crushed under the heel of his father’s expensive boots. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to say anything at all. The stable boy looks at him for a moment, then asks in a much softer tone, “that bad, huh? I’m guessing you didn’t get a say in it.” 

_You don’t know the half of it,_ Keith wants to say. He wants to put everything out in the open, to confess all of his thoughts to _someone_ , and this boy has the misfortune of being the only person in the vicinity. He wants to let out all his fears that he will never be able to love this woman like he’s supposed to, that he’ll let everyone down, that the soldiers of the Garrison have always captured his attention more than the scullery maids. 

But he can’t. No matter what he does, no matter how many of his secrets he lets on to this stranger, that is a line that cannot be crossed. A secret that cannot be shared. He fears what would happen if word got out, if _anyone_ knew. 

Suddenly he realizes how stupid he’s been. A prince confiding in a perfect stranger. He cringes internally at his own foolishness, and he has to restrain himself from turning to leave immediately, from rushing out of the stables and shutting himself away in his room to hide from his mistakes. 

But Lance is standing patiently, awaiting a response. Perhaps he can see Keith’s internal struggle, and is politely ignoring it, letting the prince decide what he wants to say. Or perhaps Keith’s overexerted mind has been imagining things. Perhaps this stable boy isn’t as perceptive as he thought, and Keith was only projecting his own thoughts and insecurities onto him. 

The more he thinks about it, the more certain he is that the latter must be the case. There’s no way his carefully-crafted exterior could be seen through so easily, least of all by this insignificant nobody. Keith had let his imagination get the best of him, instantly entranced by this boy just because of his pretty face and kind words. He wants to laugh at himself for being so foolish, unsure if the urge comes from bitterness or shame or relief. 

Instead, he gives the boy a smile, guarded and not at all real. Lance’s soft expression slips, brow furrowing slightly, as if some part of him could see Keith carefully rebuilding his walls, brick by brick. Keith wonders, for a moment, what it looks like. He wonders if there was a change, as if someone had pulled curtains shut in front of his eyes, blocking out any view of the inside. He tells himself that if there was any change at all, this boy would surely never be able to notice it. 

Armed with his generic plastered-on smile, Keith gives Lance an easy answer, as if their brief heart-to-heart had never happened. “No, of course not,” he answers with practiced ease, pressing fake reassurance into his voice. “It’s an honor to marry the princess. Besides,” he continues with a sly smile, copied from one he has seen the other nobles his age use, “rumor has it that Princess Allura is the most beautiful woman in the world.” _Not that it makes any difference,_ he tells himself bitterly, but never allowing his expression to falter. 

Before he turns away, he sees something in Lance’s expression. Something that he cannot ignore. Beyond the obvious disappointment, surely due to the abrupt end to the conversation, there’s something deeper. It looks scrutinizing, maybe. _Understanding,_ Keith realizes with a jolt. He thinks for a moment that maybe his first impression had been right, that everything he had seen might have been real. He shakes off the thought. He has bigger things to worry about than the blue-eyed stable boy who happened to have the misfortune of running into Keith in his fragile state. Keith can tell the princess to bring her own stable hand if she comes to live in his castle, and he’ll never have to see the guy again. 

And yet, as he leaves the stables and walks out into the chill of the evening air, Keith feels something in him begin to crack. No, that’s not right. Cracking is painful, abrupt, violent. This is… something else. This is softer. Warmer, somehow. It feels like the thawing of snow at the end of a long winter, when the ice clings to the trees and rooftops as if set in stone, and yet never fails to melt, slowly and reluctantly, under the gentle warmth of the springtime sun. 

He glances up at the towering trees above him, and he notices the stars, just beginning to appear for the night, beautiful and steadfastly unmoving in their own corner of the sky. He feels so small looking at them, suddenly painfully aware of how insignificant he is, how tiny his problems. He thinks that it might not be so bad, after all, to marry the princess. If it will save his people, _any_ people, if it will make it so thousands can have the privilege of seeing these same stars rather than an early grave at the hands of the Galra, then Keith thinks he would do absolutely anything. 

As he walks back to the castle in the faint light of the moon, the prince realizes that he never ended up going for a ride. And if he enters the castle with a faint smile on his lips, he’ll blame it on the beauty of the stars. 

* * *

Standing at the foot of his father’s throne, Keith swallows his pride. He is here to apologize, no matter how bitter the taste. 

He looks up at the king, who is sitting straight-backed in his elaborately carved throne, waiting to hear Keith’s words. Anxiety sits in Keith’s stomach, burning everything away until nothing remains but the beating of his heart and the shortness of his breath. He had been so pleased with himself, so sure that he had finally been on the path to making his father proud, and he had slipped up and ruined it all in one fell swoop. 

He feels the weight of the king’s gaze upon him, surely heavier than the weight of the world. 

He feels the absence of his brother like a thorn in times like these. Shiro would come to his rescue; he would talk to their father and win his forgiveness easily. But Shiro would never disappoint their father in the first place, and there would be nothing to forgive at all. He was the perfect prince, and everyone knew he would make the perfect king. Keith is struck again by the unfairness of it all, how he should have to follow in the footsteps of a man who would have been the best king that the Kingdom of Marmora could ever have. 

_Shiro is gone_ , he reminds himself bitterly, trying to pull his thoughts away from the painful place they’ve strayed to. Shiro, taken from them too soon, snatched away by the Galra, never to be seen again. They say his body was never found, only the bodies of his guards and the wreckage of his ransacked carriage. 

Keith shivers at the thought. _Focus,_ he reminds himself, pushing away the grief that has begun to creep in. The king is looking at him expectantly, and Keith knows that he has run out of time to delay. 

“Father,” he begins, unsure what else he intends on saying, but knowing that he cannot keep the king waiting any longer. “I…apologize for my behavior earlier. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me, and I shouldn’t have walked out of the great hall like that.” Keith bows his head, the perfect picture of humility. “Forgive me.” The words feel like glass against his throat, slicing him to shreds, but the fire in his father’s eyes has dulled to the smallest embers. 

“My son, I will not punish you for this slight,” the king begins, his voice stern. Keith’s heart hammers in his chest, unsure if he can believe his father’s words, waiting for the axe to fall. “Soon you will be king, and it will no longer be my responsibility to teach you. It is up to you now to take responsibility for your actions, and your whole kingdom will suffer if you make a misstep. Apologies will do you no good from here on.” The king passes his judgement with a cold stare. 

Despite the king’s words, Keith still feels like he has been dealt a blow. It feels like a harsh reminder of all his failures, all his shortcomings. Nevertheless, he walks out of the throne room with his head held high, never once betraying the heavy feeling within. 

* * *

Safely in his room, Keith allows his façade to waver, just for a moment. His shoulders slump a fraction of an inch, his eyelids droop, and the slightest sigh escapes his lips. 

With the chaos of the day behind him – _has it really been only a day?_ – Keith is finally able to take a step back and evaluate his situation with a level head. He had been so caught up in his own emotions, overwhelming and trying to break free after years of repression, that he had let himself become unforgivably selfish. He had felt so sorry for himself, wallowing in his own self-pity for so long that he hadn’t thought to test the weight of the day’s revelations. Thousands of people are dead, murdered by the Galra, and the only thing he could think about was himself. 

Keith puts a hand on the wall to steady himself against the force of the realizations crashing upon him, finally breaking the thick surface of his skin as the horrible reality begins to truly sink in. He thinks of the pain he felt when he lost his mother, and then again when he lost his brother. Thousands of families are feeling the same grief at this very moment, the wound still achingly fresh. Keith feels sick at the thought of it. 

And yet, for a moment, things had seemed okay. His hour in the barn seems to him like a dream, a glimpse into the life of a stranger. Although he never quite forgot his problems, he had felt as if everything was a little bit less. He felt almost as if he could handle everything that life had thrown at him. 

He tries desperately to find this feeling again, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow for a moment. He tries to recall the momentary peace he had felt in the garden, and then again in the stables. It feels a million miles away. He tries to tell himself that nothing can be done for those grieving families, that nothing can undo what has happened. 

Except…something _can_ be done. The knowledge feels like a weight in the pit of his stomach, but also a relief. His marriage to Princess Allura, and the security that it will bring to their kingdoms, will prevent such a tragedy from befalling them again. He shakes his head, unwilling to think about it, and instead walks over to the window on the opposite side of the room, overlooking the castle grounds. 

In the darkness, the grounds look peaceful. The light of the moon shines bright in the late hour, illuminating the vast gardens. He counts himself lucky to have his room overlooking the gardens behind the castle, when the rest of the royal bedrooms have a view looking out on the elaborate fountain and statues that decorate the front steps of the palace, and the road beyond. The gardens, so peaceful at this hour, are a constant source of comfort for him. 

Yet, inexplicably, the gardens don’t bring him the same feeling as they usually do. They feel unbelievably lacking, somehow. The countless flowers and trees and bushes seem empty, as if something horribly important is missing. 

Keith thinks that maybe, just maybe, he may have to pay another visit to the stables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure: I'm actually lowkey afraid of horses and I was tasked with making a very difficult decision for this chapter, but after careful deliberation I decided it would be best to make Keith a horse lover. I want to apologize to my friends, my family, and, most importantly, myself. 
> 
> hope y'all are enjoying the story so far! please feel free to leave any feedback in the comments, as always!


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year!  
> sorry this chapter took so long to update! more details in the end notes

Word of the prince’s engagement gets out fast, despite everyone’s best efforts to keep it quiet. 

The castle is flurry of activity in the following days, full of messages and gifts from well-wishers. No one seems to care that the wedding is nearly half a year away, ecstatic and intrigued by the news that the mysterious prince is to be married. Keith, the brooding youngest child of the royal family, has avoided the public eye with incredible skill over the years, always remaining quiet and mingling with the nobility only when required, and even then only exchanging polite pleasantries. Even after the loss of his brother and his ascension to the status of Crown Prince, Keith largely remained an enigma to the people of Marmora. Now, with his betrothal to the princess of a neighboring kingdom, Prince Keith has found himself thrust into the spotlight, unable to avoid the attentions of his people with the aptitude he once possessed. 

Instead, his people praise his name, thankful for the relief that comes from a much-needed distraction. It seems as if everyone in the kingdom wants to celebrate, after months of nothing but bad news from the war. The news of the massacre in Altea is swept under the rug with ruthless efficiency, and no one in Marmora seems to mind. They flock to the streets with cheers for their prince, pushing all thoughts of Altea from their minds as celebrations flood the kingdom for days on end. 

It makes Keith’s stomach turn, watching the people of his kingdom celebrate his engagement without sparing a passing thought for the innocent lives that were so brutally taken. 

He can hear the celebrations continue late into the night even from within the castle, and a quick glance out of any of the city-facing windows reveals the revelries. Streamers fly above the many-colored roofs of the capital city, and every doorway is adorned with a flag of their kingdom’s crest: a single flame, wreathed with holly. Musicians stroll the streets, filling every cobblestone walk with upbeat music to accompany the joyous mood that has filled the heart of nearly every citizen. 

There is no mourning, no tolling of the bells or darkened clothing. No quiet nights in low lighting, full of families coming together in solemn recognition of what was lost. A tragedy so close to home should be a blow to every citizen of Marmora, and it should be reflected nowhere more than in the capital city. 

Even Keith, unfortunately, has trouble finding time to mourn. The long days seem endless, full to the brim with fake smiles and fancy dinners and all sorts of other untold miseries. The celebrations, meant to congratulate and honor Keith, feel more like a punishment for a crime he didn’t mean to commit than a reward for a joyous occasion. Every minute seems to be filled with meetings and performances and public appearances, until all he can do in his precious free moments is collapse into bed and try to get a few minutes of rest. 

He misses his peaceful trips to the gardens horribly, their absence yet another reminder of what this life has cost him. As the days of activity lengthen to weeks, the air grows colder and colder. The leaves of the trees turn the brilliant colors of autumn, but far too quickly begin to fall to the ground in endless piles for the gardeners to rake away. Soon the biting smell of rotting leaves accompanies the crisp air that blows through the windows of the palace, and the beautiful flowers begin to wilt and die in terrible harmony with the soon-to-be barren boughs that tower above. 

When the first frost comes, Keith notes the passage with a heavy heart, knowing his time to wander the palace grounds has nearly run out for this year. 

He turns away from the window, drawing the curtains closed. His ornate rooms seem like a cave without the gentle sunlight filtering through, but the sight of the grounds has grown unbearable to him. It fills him now with grief and longing, a constant reminder of the freedom he has already lost before the wedding has even taken place. He shudders to think of how his life will worsen when he takes the throne. 

Even his rooms have begun to feel like a prison, despite being his only respite from the bombardment of responsibility that awaits him elsewhere in the castle. He glances around the rooms, seeing endless furniture and decorations and embellishments that many in his kingdom would give anything for, and finds them to be nearly monstrous in their twisted forms. The gaping mouth of the fireplace, unlit due to Keith’s stubborn refusal to accept the coming of winter, seems as if it could swallow him whole. Suddenly he feels unbearably confined, desperate to escape this room where shadows settle in the corners and the air feels too thin to breathe. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, moving without thinking. 

He bursts through his doors, startling the guard posted nearby. Keith ignores the man’s startled expression, and turns sharply down the corridor that leads to the grand library. He has a private library within his quarters, but it won't suffice today. He needs an escape from those wretched rooms. 

Throwing open the heavy doors to the castle’s main library, Keith finds himself enveloped in muffled silence and the familiar smell of old books, the warm feeling a stark contrast to the cold desperation he had felt in the stone and marble corridors just a moment before. He lets out a small breath, trying to allow the tension to melt from his muscles as he steps into the room. He already feels childish for losing control of his emotions, but decides that a short break from his duties might be allowable. 

Hardly two steps into the library, however, Keith’s brief illusions of peace are shattered. A noblewoman rounds a corner, coming into view from where she had been hidden among the towering shelves. 

Immediately upon seeing the prince, the girl curtsies hurriedly, nearly dropping her books. “Oh! Your Highness, how lovely to run into you here,” she says sweetly, charming in the way all nobles seem to be. She composes herself easily, as if her surprise had been nothing more than a figment of Keith’s imagination. 

Keith spares her a forced smile, trying to put a name to the face before him. Nothing about her seems familiar in the slightest, from her long golden hair to the sweet smile that graces her lips. Luckily, she saves him the trouble of trying to extract the information from his exhausted mind. “I’m Lady Nyma,” she says. “We haven't met before, but I believe you know my brother, Lord Rolo.” 

Relief, brief but notable, fills Keith upon learning that he had never met this girl before, rather than having somehow forgotten her. The last thing he needs amid all the turmoil of recent days is to offend a noble family with his carelessness. Still, he chooses his next words carefully, far too aware that he has not yet escaped this situation unscathed. 

“Yes, of course. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Nyma. Lord Rolo speaks very highly of you.” 

She smiles warmly, clearly content with his answer, and Keith grows slightly more comfortable. Lord Rolo has been a faithful servant to the throne for years, much like his father before him. They are valuable allies, and stand to give much help when the time comes for the people of Marmora to decide if they will throw their support behind Keith as their king, or if they will turn against him. Lord Rolo’s family holds much sway over the public opinion, thanks in part to the large fortune they possess and the immense generosity with which they share it, as well as their amicable attitudes towards the commoners. Within the court, however, they are notorious for their disingenuous tendencies, always finding a way to skew a situation in their favor while feigning innocence. 

Before Keith has any time to feel pleased with himself for not immediately antagonizing Lady Nyma, however, the lady’s expression shifts. Her voice comes out hushed and modest, lacking all of its previous self-assurance. 

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, how terribly rude of me. I'm sure you came here for some peace and quiet, and all I've done is stand in your way. Please forgive me.” She bows her head and begins to step around him, and Keith wants nothing more than to simply let her go. 

Unfortunately, he knows he must make a good impression whenever possible. He needs the full support of the noble families if he is to rule successfully, and allowing a member of one of the most influential families to walk away in poor spirits would be inexcusable. 

With a silent sigh, Keith makes up his mind to stop Lady Nyma before she has time to disappear through the grand doors. “Wait, Lady Nyma,” he calls out, turning to face her. She turns away from the door at the sound of his voice, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. “It's...it's really no bother at all,” he assures her, feeling sick as he forces the words out. 

The softening of Lady Nyma’s features assures Keith that he made the right decision, no matter how it pains him. Although, he thinks he sees something else behind her modestly pleased expression. It looks…smug, almost. As if this was the exact outcome she wanted. 

Keith knows better than to be surprised. The nobility always has an ulterior motive, and no action is without reason. Words never mean what they appear to be on the surface, and every encounter seems carefully-crafted to best suit their needs. Lady Nyma and her brother are known for this most of all, and Keith curses himself for not being better on his guard when he first encountered her. Keith, despite knowing for certain from the look in her eyes that Lady Nyma has intentions that she has not made clear, cannot back out now without risking the throne’s friendly relationship with Lord Rolo. He wants to groan at the unfairness. All he wants is a simple conversation, free from hidden meanings and fake politeness, yet he fears that he has been thrust into another twisted ploy without even realizing it. 

Silently cursing himself for being fooled into believing that he could ever have a break, Keith allows Lady Nyma to lead him to a nearby table. He takes the seat across from her, thankful at least for the comfortable cushions of the library chairs and the beautiful view of the city outside the wide window next to him. 

Lady Nyma clears her throat delicately, drawing Keith’s gaze away from the window. “So,” she begins, “what brings you to this library? Surely you have your own private library in your quarters.” 

“Just wanted a change of scenery,” Keith says blandly, unwilling to betray too much. He wishes she would get to the point, wholly uninterested in the prerequisite small talk. 

She smiles knowingly, then leans in conspiringly and lowers her voice. “Well, that's hardly surprising. I've heard certain...rumors, you know.” Her eyes, closer now thanks to their proximity, sparkle mischievously. Keith’s blood runs cold at the implications of her words. 

He tries to decode the meaning behind her statement, sure that he must misunderstand. The longer her words hang in the air between them, however, the more sure he becomes that there is nothing else to which she could be referring. If Lady Nyma has somehow figured out his secret, the secret he has kept so closely guarded since the day he was old enough to understand it himself, nothing good can come of it. Lady Nyma has a reputation of valuing good gossip above all the gold and jewels in her family’s estate, mostly because she can always find a way to twist it to her advantage. If she knows…. Keith refuses to even entertain the thought. 

He tries to calm his nerves. She has said nothing yet to confirm his fears, only mentioned the presence of rumors, hoping to get a reaction from him. She wants gossip, nothing more. That's why she lured him to this secluded table in the quietest part of the library, away from prying ears. And yet, despite all logic telling him that he should not yet worry, Keith finds immense difficulty in meeting her eyes and answering her challenge with a blank expression. 

“What kind of rumors, my lady?” he asks hesitantly, silently praying that it truly is nothing more than the petty gossip of the courts. 

She looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, trying to determine how best to phrase her sentence to illicit the most satisfactory reaction from him. “Some say you aren't quite as pleased with this marriage as would be expected,” she says, deliberately keeping her meaning unclear. “That there might be something...standing in the way, if you will.” 

Despite the warm sunlight coming in through the window next to him, Keith finds himself shivering at Lady Nyma’s words. _She knows._ She must. The way she leans across the table, voice lowered and eyes shining with the excitement of pursuing an undeniably valuable piece of gossip, leaves no doubt in Keith’s mind that Lady Nyma is sure of her own words in a way that their questioning nature doesn’t let on. The knowledge threatens to choke him, overwhelming and terrible as the memories of the years spent hiding begin to surround him, pressing and weighing on every inch of his being. He opens his mouth to respond, entirely unsure what to say but filled with the terrible surety that he needs to say something to fix this. 

Before Keith has a chance to find his voice, however, Lady Nyma beats him to it, mistaking his silence for confusion or deliberate obfuscation. “Oh, come on. Your secret is safe with me, Your Highness. I told the other ladies that they were being ridiculous, of course, and put down the rumors before they had much time to spread. But maybe you would be willing to tell me the truth, to reward my loyalty?” Once again, she flashes her overly-sweet smile at the prince, trying to prove her innocence, entirely oblivious to the way Keith’s breathing has all but stopped. “So, tell me...is it true? We've all noticed how you avoid the attentions of all the women who fawn over you. Surely you could have any of them if you wanted, but you act as if you don't even see them.” 

As Lady Nyma rambles on, Keith has to remind himself to breathe. She’s asking for some sort of confirmation that these rumors are well-founded, no doubt scrutinizing his every reaction to her words. Despite this knowledge, Keith finds himself unable to quell the pounding of his heart and the way the room has begun to warp and twist around the woman before him. His palms have broken out in a cold sweat, and he has to clamp them on his thighs to stop from wiping them on his legs. 

Lady Nyma’s next words, however, change everything. 

“Oh, just tell me,” she bursts out, leaning back in her chair in exasperation. “Who is she? She must be beautiful beyond belief, this secret lover of yours, if you care for her more than for Princess Allura. Surely no one from the castle then...Oh! Don't tell me, is it a commoner? How romantic!” Her face lights up at her own brilliance, sure that she has solved the mystery, as she once again leans close in anticipation of the prince’s answer. Keith thinks he could faint from relief. _A secret lover._ That's what the noblewomen are concerned with. That's the scandalous gossip that Lady Nyma has been trying to pry from him. 

He forces a look of indignation, rather than betray the relief he truly feels. “Lady Nyma, I can assure you I have no idea what you're talking about. If I've seemed inadequately excited for my betrothal to Princess Allura, I can promise you that it has entirely to do with the stress of the preparations and nothing to do with my feelings for my fiancé.” He decides to allow a bit of the truth, a quick mention of his stress, to make the lie more believable and to hopefully give Lady Nyma something else to gossip about. 

The woman leans back in her seat, disappointment etched into her every feature. 

“Your Highness, you can trust me,” she insists. “My family has been loyal to yours for decades.” She says the last with a meaningful look, pointedly reminding Keith of her importance. 

“I assure you, there’s nothing to tell,” Keith says, pushing away from the table and standing, effectively cutting off Lady Nyma’s remaining protests. She looks convinced of his lie, not bothering to hide the disappointment in her features. Keith counts her evident disappointment as a victory, even if it holds the slightest potential of putting a strain on his relationship with her family. Some secrets are worth guarding at any cost. 

With a polite bow, Keith turns away from Lady Nyma’s dissatisfied expression and makes his way back to the doors. He tries to calm his breathing, surreptitiously wiping his damp palms on his clothes, as he walks straight-backed across the quiet room. 

He arrives in his rooms only minutes later, although it feels like a lifetime, just in time to prepare for his afternoon luncheon. The fire is burning cheerily, evidentially having been lit by some well-meaning servant while he was away. Despite his earlier objections, he finds himself thankful for its warmth, trying to thaw the cold that settled over his bones during his conversation with Lady Nyma. He allows himself one more thought on the matter before forcibly pushing the encounter from his mind: _that was far too close._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! sorry this chapter took wayyy longer than usual, but I was hit with tech week/finals/travel/christmas/new years, so everything got super crazy busy for a while. Then, along with all that madness, a friend of mine passed away shortly after Christmas, and I've had a hard time finding motivation to do much writing (or much of anything at all smh). This chapter was originally going to be totally different, but I couldn't bring myself to write about anything related to grief, so I decided to keep it simple and fairly political.
> 
> Luckily, the other stuff I had written will be perfect for the next chapter, so you can hopefully expect an update within a week or so! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope it was worth the wait! again, super sorry for the delay. comments/questions/feedback are always appreciated! thanks for reading :D


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> h̡̧̭̗͇͚̟̣̣ͧͤ̃̍̌̆͝e̛̖͖̰̭̖͒y̨̨̠̘͕͔̭̺̮̣̽ͣ̓̀ ̨̲̱͖̠̫̯̔ͮͤͮͧm͐͂̌̑̊̔ͯ͞͏͔͍̰͎̜̲̩̮͓͟a̦̾͐n̳̘̎ͫ̍͐ͣ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is.......longer than I expected

After a late breakfast with his father’s closest advisors, full of stale talks of strategy for the war and dishes of food far too elaborate to constitute an average breakfast, Keith plans to head straight to his rooms for some hard-earned leisure time. He has endured over three weeks of near-constant activity, and the prospect of a few free hours made it immensely difficult for him to remain still and impassive during breakfast. He has several hours with nothing to do before the poetry reading he has to attend that evening in the music hall, and he wants nothing more than to climb into bed and faint from exhaustion until a servant eventually comes to wake him. 

Shortly after leaving the breakfast room, however, he passes by an open window and hears the distinct sound of voices and laughter coming from outside. Drawing closer, he sees the source: women, servants of the castle, are taking a break in the great lawn. Sitting atop a blanket on the grass, the women eat a light meal of bread and fruit. His attention is drawn to the shining sun above, pleasantly surprised to find nice weather in lieu of the slight chill he has already begun to grow accustomed to. It is rare to find a day so mild in Marmora nearly a full month into the autumn, and Keith feels reluctant to waste the day away in his rooms. 

Perhaps an excursion outside might be the best use of his time, then. 

As soon as the thought has crossed his mind, Keith has made his decision. _Finally, a chance to leave this damned castle._ It seems too good to be true. He begins to make his way through the brightly-lit corridors of the palace towards the main doors, reminding himself with every step to slow his pace, to not seem too eager for escape, to not let anyone know how desperate he is for a single moment of peace. 

It’s more than just the pressure of constant activity that exhausts him. Of course, the commitment is tiring, but it’s not his only worry. No, his main concern is something else. It’s a childish complaint, something that a future king should know better than to even consider, but his exhausted mind has no strength left to deny the feelings that he promised himself he would smother. When Keith finally gets a break from his busy days, when he retires to his rooms and lays beneath the plush blankets, he lets himself be selfish. He allows his composure to slip only in the pitch-black darkness of the latest hours of the night, and lets himself wallow in the truth that Lady Nyma had come far too close to discovering. 

He doesn’t _want_ to marry the princess. 

Children from the villages are taught that marriage is a beautiful thing, the ultimate show of love between two people. It starts with a rush of infatuation, filled with little flirtations and stolen kisses under the light of the stars; then it grows with the love that forms in a steady relationship, accompanied by bright bouquets of flowers and tentative hand-holding and anxious encounters with each other’s parents; then, finally, it culminates in the beauty of a lifetime commitment in marriage, with a ceremony and days of celebrations. 

Marriage is meant to be a joyous affair. It should be the happiest day of a man’s life, watching the love of his life walk down the aisle in a white gown, surrounded by the warm smiles of loved ones and the tearful embraces of close family members. 

It seems like a fairytale to Keith, perfect and unattainable, and his heart aches at the unfairness of it all. He doesn’t have the chance to fall in love and find happiness. He must marry a stranger, a woman he has never met, and spend the rest of his life shackled to her in a loveless marriage. The prospect makes his head spin, every part of him rejecting the very thought of it. 

Keith, still wandering as his thoughts consume his conscious mind, is startled abruptly out of his reverie when a voice breaks through the haze of self-pity in which he had been wallowing. 

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” The tone is light, the familiar voice playfully taunting. 

Keith is startled by the sight of the stable boy, Lance, and is surprised to find himself already out of the castle and standing beneath the pleasantly warm sun. Taking in his surroundings, Keith sees that he is standing just outside of the stables, the doors thrown open to allow fresh air to filter in as the horses graze in the field beyond. He curses himself for letting his thoughts get the best of him, and for allowing himself to wander to the one place he knows he would do best to avoid. He wonders for a moment how his unguarded expression had appeared, but trusts that his years of training have left his neutral expression to be wholly emotionless. Still, he remembers the stable boy’s uncanny ability to decipher his feelings, and reminds himself to be on his guard. 

Realizing that he has not yet answered the question, Keith stutters out an explanation for the waiting stable boy, who stands just inside the doorway of the building with an amused expression on his face. “I, um, was just…going for a walk.” He cringes internally at the uncertainty in his voice and scolds himself for allowing his composure to slip. Memories of his last visit to the stables, including his abrupt departure, flash through his mind, and he silently prays that Lance has forgotten his rude behavior from nearly a month ago. 

The stable boy glances skyward and smiles fondly, seemingly unaware of Keith’s discomfort as he crosses the short distance that brings him out of the stables. His eyes crinkle as he squints into the bright blue sky, but his smile doesn’t waver. “Yeah, I can understand. It’s beautiful today, isn’t it?” His gentle sigh appears as a puff of fog in the slightly-chilled air, although it seems out of place in the warmth of the sun. 

Keith, startled by the uninhibited fondness of Lance’s expression, simply hums in agreement. Then, feeling the silence begin to lengthen, he decides that he should say more, remembering his father’s most recent lecture about the importance of meaningful conversation. “I guess I’ve always liked the rain more,” he admits, “but I’m just glad for the chance to get out of the palace.” 

Lance’s eyes meet Keith’s, and his expression shifts for a moment, unreadable to Keith, before easily righting itself into the smallest hint of a smile. “Huh, that’s interesting,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ve always preferred the rain, too.” His smile widens at this, friendly and genuine in a way that makes Keith long for a world in which everyone smiles like this. It’s a vast improvement from the conniving masks worn by the people with whom he has been raised to associate. 

Keith is also glad to find some common ground with the stable boy, all too aware that a prince and a commoner tend to have very few similarities. He doubts they have the same reasoning for their preferences, though. For Keith, rainy days are always a much-needed opportunity for rest. No public appearances, no courtyard bazaars, and oftentimes no visitors. He spends stormy days curled up by a window in his private library, reading peacefully to the sound of the raindrops tapping against the glass. His heart pangs with longing at the memory of countless days spent lazing in his rooms, and he finds himself feeling desperate for another moment like that amid the turmoil of the recent weeks. With the coming of winter, however, Keith knows how unlikely it is that rain will come any time soon. No, it’s sure to be springtime by the time it finally rains again, and by then he will be wrapped up in the final preparations for the wedding. 

He wonders when he will be able to feel that same peace again. 

Lance’s voice startles Keith from his brooding. “Hey man, is everything alright? You kind of...disappeared for a second. Like your thoughts were somewhere else.” His expression is heavy with concern, and his previous carelessness replaced with worry. The question catches Keith off guard, and he finds himself stuttering out a response without thinking. 

“I-it’s just that I wish I could have had a few days to process the news before everyone found out,” he explains. He winces at the weakness in his own words, and is unnerved by how easily his facade crumbles under Lance’s questioning gaze. Hoping to regain some composure, he elaborates, “it just seems like the whole kingdom found out I was getting married at the same time I did. I’ll never understand how gossip spreads so quickly within these walls.” 

Lance’s eyes widen slightly, which both startles and confuses Keith, and the stable boy’s words tumble out of his mouth in a rush. “Your Highness, I swear I didn’t tell _anyone,_ I would never do that, I wouldn’t-” 

Once he is able to gather meaning from Lance’s panicked rambling, Keith holds up a hand to stop Lance’s rush of words. The stable boy cuts off abruptly, his mouth frozen in the shape of the word he had been pronouncing. “I believe you,” Keith says slowly. “This is just how things are for me. No secrets, no privacy. Ever.” His tone is blunt and matter-of-fact, leaving no room for pity from the man in front of him. He didn’t come here seeking charity or condolences from this stranger. _I didn’t come here intentionally at all,_ he reminds himself, although he ponders the credibility of the statement. He finds that he is unable to fully convince himself that he would not have come here of his own volition. 

Lance visibly relaxes at Keith’s words, his previous panic forgotten the instant the threat has disappeared. “Well,” he says with a bright smile, his light-hearted demeanor easily restored, “since you’re already here, do you want me to prepare your horse? It’s a shame you didn’t get a chance to ride last time you stopped by.” 

Lance’s tone is teasing, and embarrassment wells up in Keith at the mention of his last visit. It takes every ounce of self-control to not blush bright red with humiliation. Instead, he clears his throat and settles for an excuse. “I’m afraid I don’t have time today. I’m attending an event this evening, and it wouldn’t exactly be appropriate to show up smelling like horses.” 

Lance chuckles as if Keith had made a joke, although Keith had just been stating a fact. He struggles to understand what could have caused the stable boy to laugh, but he eventually gives up, accepting once again that personal interactions will never be his strong suit. Underneath Lance’s inexplicable laugh, however, Keith is able to recognize something that resembles disappointment, and feels it mirrored within himself. 

“That doesn’t mean I have to leave right away,” he hears himself saying, unsure where the words come from. He swiftly comes up with an excuse, the words feeling true as soon as he has spoken them: “I haven’t seen Red in months.” 

“She’s out in the field,” Lance says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. That smile draws Keith’s attention, but, with considerable effort, he drags his gaze away to meet Lance’s eyes. “I can take you to her, if you want,” the stable boy offers. 

Keith nods his consent, and allows himself to be led through the dusty stables and out into the sunny pasture beyond. Something within him seems to thaw in the comforting embrace of the sunlight, and his heart feels lighter than it has in weeks. He finds that he can’t bring himself to feel too terribly disheartened now that he can bask in the feeling of the warm sun shining on his face, rather than being stuck within the unforgiving stone walls of the drafty palace. 

As soon as they have entered the field, Keith spots his horse far on the opposite end. The red dun coloring of his horse, the coloring that earned her the name Red, makes the mare easy to spot from a distance. As Keith starts towards her, however, Lance interrupts him by pointing out a beautiful dappled gray that stands nearby. 

“That’s my horse,” he says proudly. “The old stable master said I could have her as my first payment for taking this position. Her name is Blue.” 

Keith turns abruptly to look at Lance, unsure if he heard correctly. “Your horse’s name is Blue?” 

Lance chuckles at the prince’s incredulous expression. “Yeah, hard to believe, right? I named her before I knew your horse was called Red. Do you wanna meet her?” 

Keith hesitates for a moment, afraid to get drawn into a long stay, but eventually nods. He finds himself unable to willingly disappoint the stable boy, surprised and charmed by his friendly demeanor. Lance’s face lights up with a grin, clearly excited to show off his beautiful horse. As Lance leads Keith over to her, Blue’s ears prick forward at their approach. She responds to the arrival of the stranger, Keith, with curiosity, which Keith recognizes easily from his years spent with the horses in his childhood. 

Lance gently pats her face, speaking in low tones to keep her calm as Keith approaches. Keith wants to protest that he can handle it himself, but finds himself unable to speak. He cannot bear to interrupt the moment that is playing out before him. Lance is entirely engrossed in his interaction with Blue, eyes shining with undisguised affection. 

Keith allows his gaze to linger, just for a moment, on the distracted man in front of him. His eyes trace the sharp slope of his jawline, resting there longer than they should, then travel to the bright blue eyes, framed by long lashes. Lance’s eyes remind Keith of the time, when he was much younger, when his mother took Keith and Shiro on a trip to the ocean that borders their kingdom. The warm water had glinted a beautiful blue beneath the bright sun, and Keith finds those same depths within the eyes of the stable boy. Keith realizes now that the dark skin he had initially taken for a tan is actually closer to the natural complexion of the people native to Northern Marmora, just south of Altea, and he finds himself wanting to learn more about the mysterious youth who has taken over for the seasoned stable master. 

“Where are you from?” Keith asks abruptly, startling Lance from his low reassurances to Blue. 

The stable boy’s expression changes from its initial shock to a tentative smile, which Keith attributes to nothing more than surprise and pride from being asked a personal question by a prince. Hand still placed comfortingly on Blue’s side, Lance answers, “Northern Altea, just south of the mountains.” He smiles proudly, clearly impressed by his hometown and expecting Keith to feel the same way. 

Keith, aside from feeling the small thrill of guessing correctly that Lance was from the north, shares none of Lance’s enthusiasm. From what he knows of that part of the kingdom, there isn’t much to see that far north. Aside from a small town in the mountain pass, it’s all scattered farmland and tiny villages. Still, a look of nostalgia has crossed Lance’s face, and Keith feels the urge to ask him about it. 

“Is it…is it nice there?” He asks, unable to hide the uncertainty in his voice. He has never been known to make small talk before, and his pulse spikes with the fear of somehow saying the wrong thing. _Stupid_ , he chides himself. _Why should I care what this guy thinks of me?_ His conversation with Lady Nyma, although tainted by fear, came much more naturally than this, and he struggles to understand why speaking with someone so beneath his status should prove to be so difficult. 

Before Keith has time to retract his question, Lance meets his gaze with shining eyes and a bright smile. “Oh yeah, you should see it. It’s gorgeous: the mountains on one side, the ocean on the other, and our farm right in the middle. It’s everything I could ever ask for.” Lance’s expression turns wistful, his longing palpable, and Keith realizes that he’s not the only one who mourns the time when things were simpler. “When the rain falls in the springtime,” Lance continues, eyes distant and drifting off to a point past Keith’s shoulder, “it’s like drops of sunshine are falling on us, light and warm and golden with the sun rising over the ocean.” 

Keith, unsure of what to say, allows Lance a moment to bask in the warmth of his memories before breaking the silence. “Do you miss it?” he asks gently, afraid of startling Lance out of his reminiscing. 

Lance stands in silence for a long moment, brow furrowing almost imperceptibly as his gaze remains fixed in the distance, until Blue shifts impatiently from boredom and startles him from his thoughts. Keith is surprised by the silence, especially in someone as boisterous as the stable boy, and instantly grows nervous that he said the wrong thing. Then Lance speaks, voice upbeat and unworried in a way that contrasts greatly with the heavy silence that had overcome him moments before. 

“Yeah, I guess I kinda do miss it. The farm was my home forever. And I’m sure it’s the most beautiful place on Earth. Uh, not that the castle isn’t gorgeous or anything, obviously.” He adds the last quickly, finally glancing at the prince to ensure that he didn’t accidentally offend him, before continuing. “Mostly I just miss my family. My niece and nephew and brothers and sister. I miss my mom’s cooking, and my dad’s bad jokes....I miss my dog. She would always get excited to see me every morning when I woke up, as if she had missed me during the night. Or maybe she just wanted to be fed,” he says with a small chuckle. “And my little niece, Isabella, she was so small when I left. I bet she’s grown a lot in the months I’ve been gone.” His expression shifts slowly to one of melancholy as he speaks, lost in bittersweet memories of the family he left behind. 

Keith wants to shy away from the show of emotion, unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the openness of Lance’s expression. The fondness with which he speaks of his family threatens to unlock something within Keith, but he pushes the grief aside and focuses on the man in front of him. 

“But hopefully I’ll be able to see Sebastian – that’s my brother – soon. He’s serving in the Garrison, and rumor has it that the fighting in Olkarion is declining. He could be back in a matter of months.” Lance smiles at Keith, the expression a welcome contrast to the sadness that had begun to overtake him. 

Unfortunately, this statement doesn’t have the same effect on Keith. His heart pangs at the reminder of his kingdom’s fighting force, and he is suddenly too aware of the responsibility he will soon hold. Those fighters, including Lance’s brother, will be entirely at his disposal, and their lives will be his to spend in whatever pointless conflict he chooses to throw the kingdom into. He recoils from the realization, terrified of the power he will wield. Anxious to smother that train of thought, he resorts to the sort of formal response he would use on the nobles. “You must be proud to have a brother serving in the Garrison,” he says, glad to have a familiar topic to focus on instead of facing the uninhibited emotion that Lance has expressed for his family. 

Lance, however, isn’t easily swayed from the topic of his home. “Oh yeah, we’re all proud of him. The whole village had a celebration when he went away to enlist. They had one for me, too, when I came to work here,” he boasts, drawing himself up to appear more important, the same way an owl fluffs up its feathers to appear larger in the face of stronger foes. Keith imagines Lance bragging to all of his friends and strutting around his tiny village like a king, and the humor of the image chases away a bit of his sadness. “It’s a big deal when someone from our tiny village gets to come to the capital, so you can imagine how impressive it is that two of us from the same family made it.” Keith is surprised by Lance’s unabashed posturing, but finds it refreshing and entertaining to hear someone speak his mind so easily. A nobleman would surely find a way to boast just as highly, but would take twice as long to do it in a flimsy attempt to appear modest. 

Blue stomps once, eager to get Keith’s attention after being ignored for so long. He steps up to her slowly but confidently, feeding her a treat that Lance provides. The interaction is familiar and easy, and Lance steps back to allow him some space to pat Blue’s side. The previous conversation has all but died away, forgotten with the simple task of attending to the horse. 

Still, one question is nagging at Keith. “Why did you leave, if you miss it so much?” he asks, turning his head to glance at the stable boy. 

Lance’s eyes drop to study the ground, suddenly very interested in a patch of tall grass by his feet. Regret, sharp and bitter, fills Keith almost immediately. The conversation had ended on a positive note, and he brought it back just to taint it with his thoughtless questioning. Keith thinks for a moment that he, and everyone else, would be better off if he never spoke again. 

Before Keith has time to dwell on it, however, Lance regains his composure. “Someone’s gotta help my family out, and our farm hasn’t been making much money since the war started messing with the economy. We’ve got a lot of mouths to feed, you know? This job pays well enough, and I get to live in the servants’ quarters for free, so I can send most of my earnings back for my family.” He shrugs as if this sacrifice means nothing to him, although his eyes betray him. Keith begins to wonder if he was too quick to judge the stable boy, immediately assuming that his light-hearted demeanor was all that he had to offer. 

Keith is reminded again why his marriage to Princess Allura is so important. Anything to bring stability to their kingdoms, to prevent families from being ripped apart just to survive, is worth a lifetime of discomfort for just one person, no matter how he balks at the thought. 

Struggling to find the appropriate words for the situation, Keith tries to convey his feelings to Lance, unable to bear the disheartened look that has consumed his features. “When I’m king,” he says softly, “I’m going to find a way to end this war.” He says it with as much determination as he can muster, holding Lance’s eyes and refusing to look away until he knows he has gotten his point across. 

While most would be uncomfortable with Keith’s intensity, Lance finds himself feeling comforted, and his posture straightens as his eyes once again shine with the light they held earlier. With the same intensity and seriousness of Keith’s statement, Lance locks eyes with the prince and says, “I sure hope you’re right, mullet.” 

Keith sputters out a laugh, incredulous at the use of the nickname in the midst of such a serious exchange. “Wh- I don’t have a mullet!” he protests, hand flying to the ends of his hair. The hairstyle went out of fashion ages ago in the capital city, and he finds himself self-conscious of his long hair despite his usual aversion to caring about his physical appearance. 

Lance, looking very satisfied by Keith’s response, makes a sarcastic sound. “Yeah, sure, Your Highness. Definitely no mullet there. Not at all.” His eyes crinkle at his own joke, and Keith knows he would be irritated if he were in any other situation. Instead, he feels grateful that the tension from their previous exchange has been broken. 

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters. Then, slightly louder to prevent himself from changing his mind, “you…don’t have to keep calling me ‘Your Highness’ by the way. ‘Keith’ works just fine.” 

Lance accepts this easily, and Keith lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Okay, that sounds good…but how do you feel about ‘mullet’?” he asks teasingly, and Keith immediately regrets his decision to extend this offer of friendship. 

Still, as he sits through the poetry reading later that evening, Keith finds himself smiling in a way that has nothing to do with the dull poem being read in front of him. _Friendship._ The word feels foreign to Keith, a concept that he gave up the moment he lost his brother all those years ago. He has the urge to hold on to it as tightly as he can, afraid of what will happen if he lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot believe i had to research horse behavior for this.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two bros chillin in the forest five feet apart 'cuz they're Not Gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhh 5.6k?? this is officially the longest chapter I've written so far. who am i

“…I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Lance is saying, eyes focused intently on the prince. 

Keith, entirely unsure of what Lance is referring to, silently scolds himself for once again getting lost in his thoughts. He and Lance are lounging on a felled log in the woods behind the stables, eating a simple lunch of apples and cheese in spite of the chilly weather. This is the third time that Keith has intentionally visited the stable boy, excluding the two times he mistakenly wandered to this part of the grounds, and he has found himself looking forward to their limited time together. His thoughts had gotten away from him for a moment, drifting off to appreciate the comfort he finds in their newfound companionship rather than paying attention to Lance’s words. 

Lance, perceptive as always, immediately notices Keith’s confusion, and sighs half-heartedly in exasperation. “Keith, man, we really need to work on your attention span,” he complains, all the sweeping bows and formalities of their first meeting entirely forgotten in the familiarity of their budding friendship. 

“Sorry,” Keith ducks his head. “What were you saying?” 

“I was asking about your eyes. They’re…purple? Or indigo. It’s hard to put a name to it. They don’t look anything like the rest of the royal family.” Lance squints, leaning closer to get a better look. 

Keith feels a flush, traitorous and unwanted, begin to color his cheeks. He has little room to think about the color of his own eyes, when all the depths of the ocean are staring back at him from far too close a distance. He scolds himself for the thousandth time for noticing something so unimportant, troubled by his inability to stop comparing Lance’s eyes to various bodies of water. Keith coughs nervously and leans back, anxious to put some distance between the two of them before his thoughts have any more time to wander. 

“Yeah, uh, my mother had the same eyes,” he explains, somewhat uncomfortable discussing his family with someone who comes from such a loving home. He can hardly recall the days when he could look forward to time spent with his family rather than dreading each encounter, although he tries desperately to cling to the fleeting memories. 

Lance seems to realize his mistake almost immediately, noticing how Keith’s mood shifted as soon as he mentioned his mother. “Yeah, they, um, they’re nice. Your eyes. They remind me of…grapes.” Keith smiles at Lance’s transparent attempt at a distraction, grateful for Lance’s perceptiveness. Keith has given up on trying to hide his thoughts when around the stable boy, and instead embraces the few chances he gets to have a conversation with someone in which he can be almost entirely honest, rather than having to obscure his thoughts and feelings. 

That’s why he keeps coming back to the stables. He knows it isn’t fitting for a prince to become friends with a servant, but he finds himself being drawn to Lance. As the stream of constant activity has begun to slow, Keith has been unable to resist the temptation of easy conversation and comfortable camaraderie that awaits him in the stables. It’s far better than wasting away in his rooms, counting down the days until the autumn turns into winter and the winter melts into spring. 

_Friendship._ Keith recites that word daily, thankful for the comfort it brings. Lance could surely choose any of the servants in the castle to bestow his friendship upon, and he has chosen to spend time with Keith instead. He finds himself wishing beyond reason that he could offer something to Lance in return. It occurs to him that most of his visits have consisted of Lance chattering away until Keith needs to leave for some other engagement, while Keith hardly utters a word. 

He clears his throat, deciding it might be time to try something new. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he says hesitantly, the words coming out steady and low despite his reluctance to speak them aloud. “I don’t mind talking about my family.” He is surprised to find truth in the statement, and uses Lance’s interested expression to encourage him to continue. “My mother was a good woman,” he says firmly, stressing the importance of this idea. “I’m proud to have her eyes. They’re…they’re all I have left of her.” 

Lance nods slowly in response to Keith’s confession, likely afraid of breaking the intensity of the moment. Keith has never before spoken of his family, and Lance looks terrified that one small move could be enough for Keith to close up and never speak again. Keith can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. 

“You know, I’m not going to run away,” Keith assures him, allowing his features to settle into a soft smile. “You look like a spooked horse.” 

Lance’s expression relaxes into a familiar smile as he lets out a breathy laugh at his own foolishness. “Yeah, sorry. I’m just surprised. You’re usually all brooding and quiet.” He draws himself up in a poor imitation of Keith’s usual demeanor, and both boys find themselves laughing at the absurdity. 

“I don’t _brood_ ,” Keith protests after his laughter subsides. 

“Uh-huh. Sure.” 

Keith is exasperated by the sarcasm evident in Lance’s tone. There’s an edge to Lance’s words that he can’t help but notice, and it contrasts greatly with the light-hearted banter. Lance seems to be genuinely bothered, despite his taunting tone. “What are you even _talking_ about?” Keith asks, the laughter fading from his voice. 

Lance tries to maintain his teasing manner, but doesn’t entirely succeed. “You know, that whole attitude you’ve got. Standing around like you’re so cool, leaning against walls and all that. Acting like you don’t even care what I’m saying.” Lance’s tone shifts at the end of his explanation, a bit of hurt slipping into his words as his own smile begins to slide from his face. 

Keith is entirely caught off guard by this confession, dumbfounded by the utter wrongness of Lance’s impression of him. He wants to protest that Lance’s rambling sometimes feels like the only thing he has to look forward to, but knows better than to confess something like that. Nevertheless, hearing this inaccurate description of himself frustrates him beyond reason. Has he seemed uncaring? He is more open with Lance than anyone else, so it simply doesn’t make sense. “Lance. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says steadily, keeping his voice slow and even. 

“All you ever do is sit there and listen to me talk! How do I know you’re even paying attention? You always seem,” he waves his hand around, searching for the correct word, “ _distant_ , like your thoughts are somewhere else. You’re probably just counting down the minutes until you have an excuse to leave.” Lance grows increasingly agitated as he speaks, as if voicing each insecurity only serves to anger him further. 

“Do you honestly think I would waste all my time here if I didn’t want to?” 

Keith regrets the words immediately, realizing that Lance would likely glean the wrong meaning from them. _Waste_ was not the appropriate word, but Keith has no time to correct himself before Lance’s eyes harden in true anger. 

“Yeah, that’s _exactly_ what I think,” Lance says, defiantly meeting Keith’s gaze. “Otherwise you wouldn’t act like you’re too good to be talking to someone like me.” 

“It’s not my fault that you spend all our time together talking about pointless stuff,” Keith reminds him. The words come out harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t take them back. He doesn’t like Lance’s accusatory tone, and feels anger beginning to rise in him at the stable boy’s unjust attacks. 

Lance, ever-competitive, rises to the bait, trying to prove his anger to be greater than Keith’s. “Oh, yeah?! At least I _talk_ about things! It’s no wonder people say you’re made of ice, when you can’t even be bothered to speak to your only friend.” 

The words land like a blow, and Keith winces at the reminder of his undesirable reputation. He crumbles under the intensity of Lance’s anger, unable to fathom how they got to this point. 

He begins to evaluate his interactions with Lance, and grudgingly admits to himself that there may be some validity to Lance’s complaints. It’s true Keith never says much of anything when the two of them spend time together, always allowing Lance to take the lead of their conversations. He has been too afraid to risk saying something that could upset the stable boy, and instead has chosen to avoid doing anything more than following the conversation in whichever direction Lance decides to lead it. He cannot forget what happened when he asked Lance about his family that first time, standing in the field alongside Lance’s horse. He came far too close to ruining his only chance at a friendship, and he refuses to take that risk again. 

Besides, Lance always talks about things that Keith can’t relate to. He talks about his friends from his village, working on the farm as a child, the personalities of the individual horses, and countless other idle topics. Keith has nothing to say that could interest someone like Lance, who is always so full of energy that he seems ready to burst. Keith’s life has been an endless series of lessons and etiquette and grooming, and it seems overwhelmingly dull compared to the life that Lance has lived. 

“I don’t have anything interesting to say,” Keith eventually admits in a small voice, avoiding Lance’s gaze as he allows his anger to dissipate. 

He waits for the taunting insult to come, but is surprised to find his statement met with only the whispering of cold wind through the sparse foliage of autumn trees. Several seconds tick by, long and agonizing, without a word from Lance. Finally, when Keith thinks that the silence will surely suffocate him, he decides to risk a quick glance at the silent stable boy. 

Lance is looking at him with an expression softer than any Keith has ever seen, his recent outburst entirely forgotten. His eyebrows are drawn down and his mouth tilted in the slightest frown, but his eyes shine with something unidentifiable. Keith’s first instinct is to scoff at his pity, but he decides that _pity_ isn’t the right word for it. Pity is kind on the surface, but harsh and judgmental beneath. This is far sweeter, and soft to its core. 

“I’m sure that’s not true.” 

Lance says the words so quietly that Keith almost doesn’t hear them. His eyes remain steadfastly trained on Keith’s, but his demure body language contrasts with the boldness of his gaze. He seems to want to convey some message to Keith, but cannot find the words. 

Keith finds that he is unable to look away from Lance, even long after his statement has faded away into the breeze. He wants to ignore the warm blush that has begun to creep into his skin, but finds that the warmth has settled into every part of him. It will not be so easily purged. 

Lance finally clears his throat and looks away, leaving Keith feeling chilled without the heat of his gaze. 

The prince allows the silence to stretch for several moments more, uncomfortable with the way the mood of their conversation has shifted. He wants to curse himself for ruining things again, feeling certain that this strange moment will only strain their friendship further. He thinks that he might have preferred their argument to the uneasy feeling that has settled over them in the wake of his pitiful admission. 

He cannot bear it. The silence is crushing, and the absence of Lance’s gaze has left a lingering chill on his skin. Keith can think of only one way to quell Lance’s fears, and to move on from the discomfort of having expressed too much emotion in such a short time. 

With a sigh, he finally speaks. “Fine,” Keith says, prompting Lance to finally meet his eyes. “Ask me one question, and I swear to answer it honestly.” He regrets the words as soon as he has spoken them, but he knows that this is something he must do. He is not willing to sacrifice this friendship when it has barely begun. 

Lance doesn’t miss a beat, seizing his opportunity. “Why don’t you ever want to talk about your family?” he asks, gaze unflinching and bold. 

Keith lets out a humorless laugh. He should have known better than to expect Lance to choose a more benign question. 

“What family?” he asks bitterly. “It’s just me and the _king._ ” He stopped having a family the day his brother was taken from him. The day his father buried himself so far into his grief that he became unrecognizable, throwing himself into is duties until the word _father_ lost its meaning altogether. 

“You know what I mean.” Lance’s tone is challenging, daring Keith to try to evade his question again. 

Although Lance’s tone is less biting than it was earlier, their brief fight hangs heavily in the air between them. Keith wants nothing more than to ignore the question, or to try once again to brush it off, but he knows that Lance won’t allow that to happen without having his fears confirmed. 

Besides, Keith knows he must learn to talk to others. His years of repression have helped him immensely, but he knows that he must learn to build personal relationships without his own reservations standing in the way. He will, without a doubt, be expected to open up to Princess Allura about his feelings once they are married, and he cannot expect himself to be prepared if he has never practiced. 

Plus, as surprised as he is to admit it, Keith trusts the stable boy. Lance has never once judged him, despite his uncanny ability to decipher Keith’s every thought. He can brush aside tension as easily as brushing dust from marble, and move on from weighty conversations as if they had never happened at all. Lance is the perfect person to have this conversation with. 

Keith takes a deep breath, trying to find the courage to voice the thoughts that he has never before spoken aloud. 

“It’s just… when my mom died, Shiro was there to help me through it while our dad closed himself off. It wasn’t easy for either of us, but at least we had each other. But when Shiro was…lost, I had no one. I…,” he trails off, unable to speak these words aloud. “Ugh, never mind. Forget I said anything.” His cheeks burn with regret for trying to share something like this. He knows better than to admit these thoughts out loud when he can hardly admit them to himself. 

Lance, who had been watching Keith intently with careful neutrality, furrows his brow. “Keith… you need to stop doing that,” Lance scolds, struggling to keep his tone gentle. “You can’t just bottle up your feelings all the time. Eventually you’re going to have to feel something.” 

_That’s what I’m afraid of,_ Keith wants to say. He knows all too well that he cannot outrun this pain. 

Grief isn’t something that can be swept aside or forced down. It follows you, persistent and unavoidable, always lingering at the corners of your consciousness, until you become too weak to deny it any longer. It waits for an opening, for the moment a tired mind becomes unguarded, and always, _always,_ finds a way to take hold. 

Keith tried for years to outrun that grief, to pretend he didn’t feel its eyes heavy upon him as he went about his business from day to day, but he learned all too well that grief cannot be so easily beaten. It demands recognition in a way that stems only from its finality, and from the knowledge that this problem won’t simply go away if ignored for long enough. Tomorrow, next week, and 30 years from now, his mother and brother will still be gone. No amount of tears or pleading or pain will ever bring them back. That kind of pain never really heals. Not fully. 

The best he can hope for is the strength to move forward. To live a life that can honor their memories. 

He doesn’t feel strong enough. 

“I just…,” he struggles to find the right words, uncertain how to express himself. “It sounds stupid, but part of me still hopes that Shiro will walk right through the front door. That he’ll come back to us.” 

Keith is surprised by his own words, unaware that he had been holding them in. He has chased away these thoughts for years, pushing them aside with chants of _Shiro is gone, Shiro is dead, Shiro is never coming back._ He has never allowed himself to put words to the idea that has always nagged at him. The confession is draining, and he feels tears well up in his eyes at his own stupidity. _Shiro is dead._ He is a fool for believing otherwise, and an even worse fool for admitting it out loud. He tries to blink away the tears, petrified that one may escape and betray just how weak he truly feels. 

_Stop that,_ he scolds himself. He refuses to cry, already aware that he has shared too much. He clears his throat, trying to disguise the swell of emotion that he had been unable to repress in hopes of hiding it from Lance. 

Lance looks at him for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice comes out as nearly a whisper, so quiet that Keith has to lean forward to hear. “They never found his body, right?” Keith nods. “I get it. I mean, I don’t _really_ get it, because I’ve never been through anything like this, but…I get it. You didn’t get to have any closure.” 

Leaning this close, Keith can see every freckle upon the tanned skin in front of him. He can see a small scar on Lance’s chin, its existence unknown to Keith until this very moment. He can see flecks of gold in Lance’s eyes, shining in contrast to the deep blue, that he has never before had the privilege of beholding. Those eyes are full of undiscovered gems, enticing Keith to lean forward and stare into them until his heart grows still. 

He leans back abruptly, suddenly needing space to breathe. 

“Yeah,” Keith mutters, averting his gaze. “Something like that.” 

He shakes his head, trying to gather his thoughts. He shouldn’t allow himself to be so easily distracted from the things that truly matter. 

He remembers the endless months spent in every library he could access, searching for proof that his brother was still alive. He remembers the records he found, documenting every known Galra prison. Rumor always said that the Galra don’t take prisoners, but Keith knows better now. There are no known records of the individual prisoners, at least not that any of their allied kingdoms have access to, but at least Keith has confirmation that Galra prisons truly do exists. Keith wonders if Shiro is sitting in one of those prisons right now, all hope of escape or rescue abandoned after years in confinement. 

He wonders if Shiro could have even survived this long in a Galra prison. 

He could have been captured, which would explain the lack of body, but then could have died while in captivity. He could have been tortured to death, subjected to unknown horrors. He could have starved to death, malnourished intentionally or by the mistake of a neglectful system. Or he could have simply given up living, allowing his strength to abandon him as he wasted away to nothing, sure that no one would ever come find him. 

He could have died alone, abandoned by his family to rot in a prison on the other side of the world. 

“I should go,” Keith says, standing abruptly. He cannot allow himself to think this way. Lance stares at him with wide eyes, but doesn’t protest. For once, Keith doesn’t try to decode the look behind those eyes. 

He turns away, shoes crunching through the blanket of fallen leaves as he makes his way out of the woods. At the edge of the trees, a voice stops him. 

“Hey, Keith, wait up!” Lance calls. The sounds of his footsteps, hurried and stumbling, accompany his appearance. “Hey,” he says, his panting breath leaving puffs of fog in the chilly air. He pauses for a long moment, using his breathlessness as a transparent excuse to allow himself time to find words. After regaining his composure, Lance flashes Keith a bright smile. “So,” he says casually, leaning against the sturdy trunk of a tall tree, “same time tomorrow?” 

Inexplicably, Keith feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He turns away without responding, but both of them know his unspoken answer. 

* * *

A week later, Keith finds himself being dragged towards the servants’ quarters to meet one of Lance’s friends. He wants to protest that he cannot risk being seen in a place like that, but Lance, speeding ahead with his eyes alight and an excited rush of words flowing from his mouth, leaves no room for objections. 

“Oh man, you’ll love Hunk,” he says. “He’s the best cook in the whole kingdom. Obviously he’s the best, or else he wouldn’t be working in the castle, I guess. All those fancy meals you eat are made by him. He’s a genius! Sometimes he lets me try out his new recipes before he serves them to the nobility.” As Lance rambles on, he leads Keith through a side door of the castle and down a narrow stairwell. Keith grows more uncomfortable by the second, but finds no chance to interrupt Lance’s excited chatter as they descend the dimly-lit staircase. 

At the bottom of the stairs, they come to a door. Lance pushes it open unhesitatingly, and Keith finds himself being pulled into a room he has never before seen. Hanging fixtures provide low lighting that illuminate the scattered tables in the room, but leave the dingy corners to be swallowed by the lingering shadows. The tables are empty, and the room appears to be entirely abandoned. The far end of the room holds a large open-flame oven, endless shelves of herbs and spices, and cabinets filled with untold delicacies. A long wooden countertop with stools on the near side separates the kitchen space from the dining area in which they currently stand. 

“Lance! Good to see you, man,” a voice calls out. Keith’s heart leaps to his throat, startled to find that the room is not as empty as it had first appeared to be. On the other side of the counter stands a large man with a friendly face, who Keith had not been able to see before his eyes adjusted to the low lighting. 

Lance heads straight over to the counter, while Keith approaches more slowly. He wills his startled pulse to slow, but finds that his discomfort does not fade entirely. He wishes he could simply slip away into the shadows, but Lance is quick to ensure that he will not be able to escape unnoticed. “Hunk, my man! This is Keith,” he says, gesturing for Keith to step closer to the counter. Then, lowering his voice dramatically despite the empty room, leans over the wooden counter and adds, “you know, _the prince._ But keep it on the down-low, you know?” 

Hunk’s eyes widen at this, and his attention immediately shifts to Keith. Keith understands for the first time the true power that anonymity offers, and wishes beyond reason that he could experience it just once. “Oh! Uh, of course, obviously, I definitely won’t tell anyone, Your Highness,” Hunk promises, failing to disguise his awe at seeing the prince in his kitchen. 

Keith nods his thanks with a forced smile, trying to hide to discomfort. He has no reason to believe that the cook will break his promise. Lance assured Keith endlessly of Hunk’s loyalty and discretion, promising that no one would ever know of Keith’s visit to the kitchens. Unfortunately, a different worry weighs on the prince: he feels as if he is trespassing, taking up space in a world to which he does not belong. This place is not meant for people like him, and he has an unwavering certainty that he is somehow tainting it simply by breathing its air. 

Hunk seems to pick up on Keith’s uneasiness, and offers him a kind smile. “Well, why don’t you have a seat and I’ll make you guys some lunch?” he offers, his tone softening in spite of his previous excitement. 

“That sounds great! Thanks, buddy,” Lance answers, cutting off Keith’s reply before he has even had time to consider the offer. 

The two of them sit down on the stools and watch as Hunk begins to gather ingredients for an elaborate-looking meal. Lance drums his fingers absently on the countertop, unaware of how the sound sets Keith on edge. The fast tempo of the tapping only adds to Keith’s anxiety, coaxing his pulse into keeping pace with the unrelenting sound. Lance looks between Hunk and Keith as the silence lengthens, grasping for a topic that will keep both of them engaged. 

Incredibly, he manages to choose the worst possible topic. “So,” Lance finally says, breaking the silence, “Hunk, how’s Shay doing?” 

Keith instantly dislikes Lance’s tone of voice, which resembles too closely the taunting way in which he has heard other men discuss each other’s trysts with local women. Hunk, his back turned to the two of them as he prepares their meal, stiffens for a moment at the suggestion in Lance’s voice. Gathering himself quickly, he resumes chopping vegetables. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, failing to keep the smile from his voice. 

“Uh-huh,” Lance teases. “Okay man, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” 

Hunk, rather than bristling at the sarcasm in Lance’s tone, allows the tension to leave his body entirely. He flashes Lance a grateful look over his shoulder before returning to cooking. “What about you? Anyone here caught your eye yet?” Hunk doesn’t attempt to emulate Lance’s tone, and instead seems to be asking out of pure curiosity. Keith decides quickly that he likes Hunk, and wishes once again that he could overcome the great barrier of his position as prince and instead spend his time around people like this. 

“Maybe,” Lance says with a smile, unfazed by Hunk’s refusal to speak openly. “But I never kiss and tell.” 

Keith, already uncomfortable with the way the conversation has turned, grows even more uneasy. He wants to avert his eyes from the way Lance raises an eyebrow, and to ignore the implications that lay within the gesture. He often forgets that most his age are far more experienced than he is, and finds himself particularly uneasy at the thought of Lance being seasoned in such a way. 

Keith tries to shake this feeling, reminding himself that he should be supportive of his friend, just as Lance was of Hunk. He should be glad to hear that his _friend_ is finding women in the castle, and should certainly say something soon before either Hunk or Lance notices his silence and begins to question him. 

Luckily, he is saved from trying to vocalize any of his scattered thoughts when Hunk speaks. 

“Dude, you’ve been here for like five months. How are you already getting girls?” he asks, incredulous, as he pulls more ingredients from the shelves above him. 

Lance laughs. “I don’t know how that has anything to do with it. If anything, it makes them want me more. They don’t know anything about me aside from my stunning good looks and incredible modesty.” Hunk bursts into laughter at this, and Keith sees Lance’s mouth quirk in a barely-suppressed smile. At least some of this bravado, then, is an act. The thought calms Keith a bit, although he refuses to examine the reason why. 

Then, just as quickly as Keith’s nerves have begun to calm, Lance ruins it once again. “I mean, there are definitely some things I miss from home,” Lance says with a sly grin. “But I’ve found that the girls here are just as… accommodating.” 

Keith is caught off guard by Lance’s lewd words. He wants desperately to leave, to pretend this whole conversation never happened. He can feel his view of Lance shifting, although he cannot quite understand it. Keith has for weeks only known Lance as kind and compassionate and humorous, and this new insight into the cruder side of his personality leaves Keith feeling ill-at-ease. He should have known better than to think that Lance was any different from the boorish soldiers of the Garrison, who always want to boast about the many women they have taken to bed. 

“Dude, gross,” Hunk complains, turning around to give Lance an exasperated look. Then, noticing Keith’s apparent distress, adds, “have some dignity, Lance. There’s a prince in the room.” 

“Oh, sure. Like he’s never done anything before. The servant girls practically throw themselves at him. He’s probably more experienced than the two of us combined. Right, Keith?” 

Keith’s blood runs cold at the casual words. He should have known that this was where the conversation was heading, but was too preoccupied examining his own unease to prevent the focus of the conversation from shifting to himself. He slips his hands off the countertop, afraid that they’ll betray him as he tries to keep his words steady. “No, um, not really,” he says, succeeding at least in keeping his voice from shaking. He clears his throat and looks away, eyes flitting across the endless racks of spices against the wall next to him. 

“Aw look, you’ve made him embarrassed,” Hunk croons. “Don’t worry, man. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to get with the scullery maids from time to time. As long as they’re into it, obviously.” 

Keith could let it end there, could let them believe what they want and not risk betraying anything. He could let them think that he lusts after women the way any normal man does, and that he has had his fair share of experiences, but he finds that he cannot let it go. He doesn’t _want_ them to think that of him. “No, really,” he insists. “I haven’t.” 

Lance holds up his hands in mock surrender at the seriousness of Keith’s tone. “O-kay,” he says, drawing out the word. “Don’t worry, we won’t go around spreading rumors that you have some secret mistress. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation or anything.” His mouth quirks up into the hint of a smile, but it does nothing to soothe Keith’s nerves. 

“Oh yeah,” Hunk laughs. “All that _heart of ice_ nonsense people say about you. No worries, man. Your honor is safe with us.” 

Keith shakes his head and looks away, refusing to allow the conversation to go further. He cannot risk saying more, certain that nothing good will come of it. Lance starts boasting to Hunk about the various women with whom he has been _acquainted_ , and Keith does his best to keep his expression neutral as he hears name after name leave the stable boy’s lips. 

He doesn’t want to hear the stories. He doesn’t want to even think about them. He knows that a majority of the stories are likely exaggerated, but a part of him cannot help but dwell on the knowledge that even one of them may be real. He doesn’t want to imagine Lance in the arms of woman after woman, or think of the things he did with them. 

_Oh, god._ Keith doesn’t want to think about how _he_ is going to be expected to do these things in a matter of months. When he marries Princess Allura, all of his chances to avoid physical intimacy will have run out. His stomach churns at the thought, and the aroma of Hunk’s cooking suddenly loses its appeal entirely. 

_What is_ wrong _with me?_ He wants nothing more than to feel the way Lance describes. He wants to dream of soft skin and delicate hands and lilting voices. He wants his pulse to quicken when a pretty woman smiles at him, and his eyes to be drawn to her slender neck or the gentle curves of her body. Anything other than the dreams of flat chests and strong muscles that come to him in the night, demanding every ounce of his attention as he does everything in his power to will them away. 

And the eyes. The same eyes that seem to come to him more and more often as he begs for sleep to take him. Those eyes, blue and deep and shining. Framed by long lashes, dark skin. A dusting of freckles, a sharp jaw. _Lance’s_ eyes. Lance’s face. _Lance._

Keith fears that something has shifted in his feelings towards the stable boy, and he is certain that he cannot allow it. He knows that it would be best to distance himself from Lance as soon as possible, but he finds himself unable to stay away. 

He doesn’t want to lose his friend, his _only_ friend, to these unwanted thoughts and feelings. He needs to be stronger than them, to smother them in the way in which he has always proven himself to be so skilled. 

But things are different this time. As Lance, sitting far too close to him, lets out a ringing laugh in response to something Hunk says, Keith fears that he is already far too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistent update schedule? I don't know her....  
> in all seriousness tho, sorry for how sporadic my updates have been! this chapter was much longer than I anticipated, and I've been super busy preparing for the new semester. I'm afraid the next update will probably also take a while, since I've just gotten back to school and i'm (hopefully) going to be getting a job. I will definitely try my best to have it up within two weeks, though!
> 
> thanks for reading! :D


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *gordon ramsey voice* finally...some good fucking plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello I’ve completely abandoned any semblance of a release schedule and that’s just how it is on this bitch of an earth. thanks for putting up with me

Burning muscles, panting breath. That’s all there is. Parry, slash, cut, stab, slice. No space for anything else, no room for second-guessing. No time to dwell on useless thoughts, to waste energy feeling things that are best left unfelt. 

Keith had gone far too long without training, and had nearly forgotten his love for it. He can focus entirely on the motions of his own body, trusting his muscles to carry through with the actions that his brain demands. He feels the power of his own strength, which is far too easily forgotten as he sits straight-backed at tables discussing politics and dining on decadent dishes. This is a feeling better than any rainy day or ride through the woods. 

The straw dummies are easily worn out, but Keith spends hours practicing with the pell. He much prefers sparring with another person over attacking an unmoving wooden post, but he wanted to be alone today. It’s easier to lose himself in the rhythm of his body, and no one is around to tell him to stop when he has pushed himself too hard. He can be entirely in control on days like this, and he wouldn’t sacrifice that opportunity lightly. 

Satisfied with his workout, Keith wipes the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and takes a small sip of water. The chilly weather is perfect for training, allowing him to work longer and harder without overheating. He tells himself that this is far better than huddling atop a log in the forest or hiding out in the drafty stables, trying desperately to ignore the wintry weather as it creeps in from every direction. 

He feels comfortably exhausted, pleased with the slight ache in his muscles. Now that he has mostly regained the same level of freedom he had before his engagement, he can finally spend his time pursuing things that he enjoys. He has spent the past several days wasting away within the castle, reading and training and pacing his rooms, while refusing to allow himself a chance to wander the distant reaches of the grounds. He is not yet ready to face the stable boy after last week’s excursion to the kitchens, or to examine the confusing war that it sparked within him. 

His sword dangles loosely from one hand, his fingers suddenly so tired that he can hardly hold it upright. Exhaustion hits him like a blow as the adrenaline of his routine begins to fade. He gathers his things and leaves the private training grounds, content with his work for the day as he heads towards the weapons shed. 

The dusty smell of the shed welcomes him like an old friend, and Keith falls comfortably into the routine of cleaning up. He wipes debris off the blade of his sword, and removes the tie from his hair. It settles comfortably along his shoulders, and he pauses at the sudden memory of Lance’s taunting insult. _Mullet_. His hand comes slowly to touch the place where the strands fall against his neck, and he wishes distantly that someone else would run their fingers through his hair and brush the delicate skin beneath. He allows his own fingertips to settle on the skin of his neck, just for a moment, and imagines that the rough callouses belong to someone else entirely. 

_Stop_. 

He shakes the thought from his mind, not allowing it to go any further. He cannot go on this way much longer, nipping every thought in the bud before it has a chance to blossom, but he sees no alternative. 

Thankfully, Keith hears a commotion from the Garrison training grounds nearby that startles him from his thoughts. A loud, commanding voice, followed by jeers and laughter from a sizable crowd of men. He is well-accustomed to the occasional outburst from the Garrison soldiers, but something sounds different this time. There is a genuine anger at the core of it, and it sounds like more than a petty squabble or friendly scrimmage. Keith snaps to attention at the sound, immediately on alert. Few things could cause such a commotion among a group that usually works together seamlessly. 

His feet move of their own accord, bringing him towards the sound before he has even finished removing his training gear. When he rounds the corner that brings him into the training grounds, the cause of the noise is immediately evident. 

Mitch Iverson, the High Commander of the Marmora Garrison, stands in the center of the grounds, face contorted in anger directed at the small form of a young boy in front of him. Several other soldiers watch with taunting insults on their tongues and amused smirks on their lips, giving no thought to the fact that the object of their torment is nothing more than a child. 

“This is the last time I’m going to say it, boy. Get out!” Iverson yells, his face red from anger at the apparent stubbornness of the boy. The surrounding soldiers echo Iverson’s words, relishing in the knowledge that it is not one of them who is the subject of the Commander’s rage. 

The boy does not shrink under the intensity of Commander Iverson’s anger as Keith had expected, and instead stands with his feet planted defiantly upon the packed dirt. The boy opens his mouth to respond, and Keith knows that he must do something to stop this. He knows too well the scale of Iverson’s wrath, and cannot simply stand by and watch the Commander take out his rage on a helpless child. 

“What is this all about?” Keith asks, striding to the center of the grounds where Commander Iverson and the boy stand. Upon closer inspection, the boy seems to be in his early teens, despite his small build. He wears a pair of round glasses, but they do nothing to diminish the glare that he has trained on the Commander. He bears no resemblance to the downtrodden child Keith had expected to find. 

Iverson turns towards Keith, not bothering to show any deference towards his prince as he meets his eyes. “This kid is trying to join the Garrison,” he says with a humorless laugh. “Hardly five feet tall and he thinks he deserves to fight with the most elite soldiers in the world.” His statement rouses another round of jeers from the crowd, who are equally undeterred by the presence of their prince. 

Keith has no time to dwell on their blatant disrespect, the soldiers encouraged no doubt by the Commander himself, before the child in question finally speaks up. 

“I can fight!” the boy insists, stepping forward. “Just give me a chance.” His words are met with another round of laughter, but he continues to hold his head high. 

Keith is taken aback by the outburst. Even the high-born son of a knight would shy away from speaking so brazenly to the High Commander, but this boy is utterly fearless, despite seeming to lack any noble blood or status. Keith has never seen this kid before, even though most soldiers begin their training as early as their seventh year. Even if he studied under some distant Lord or Lady, he would not have been able to finish his training as a squire or page by such an early age. 

“What’s your name?” Keith asks the boy, ignoring Commander Iverson’s heavy stare. 

He’s impressed by the boy’s boldness, and can respect his determination. It may be unwise to speak so baldly to one of the Garrison’s top commanders, but Keith finds that he cannot ignore the fire behind the boy’s eyes. A determination that strong doesn’t simply form on its own, and Keith finds himself wondering what could have caused a boy so young to want so badly to fight for his kingdom, in spite of the institutions that should delay him. 

The boy meets his eyes for just a moment, before once again training his gaze on the Commander. “Pidge Gunderson,” he replies, jutting out his chin. “I’m fifteen years old. Plenty old enough to train with the Garrison.” He keeps his eyes focused on Iverson, despite the fact that Keith was the one who addressed him. 

Keith clenches his jaw at the disrespect, growing tired of its commonality. No one in the castle shows him the proper respect, but he should at least be able to expect some courtesy from a peasant. _Look at me,_ he wants to shout. _Listen to me._ He is tired of being treated as something lesser than those around him. His training gloves, which he had forgotten to discard in his earlier haste, flex with the curling of his fists. 

_Earn their respect._ His brother’s words come back to him, quelling his rage and reminding him the importance of maintaining his composure. No one will listen to a king who demands deference from his subjects. 

The others remain oblivious to Keith’s distress, not even sparing a glance for their prince. “Kid, you have to be at least twenty years old to even be _considered_ for the Garrison,” Iverson growls, his patience worn thin. “Most don’t get in until they’re much older.” 

“Matt Holt got in when he was fifteen,” the boy protests, drawing sharp looks from the gathered spectators. The response is almost immediate: all signs of laughter fade from the gathered faces, and a heavy silence falls upon the training grounds. 

Keith’s blood drains from his face, and with it goes the last vestiges of his anger. He has to suppress a shiver at the offhanded mention of Matthew Holt, not wanting to remember the tragic tale of the prodigal son of the late Commander Holt. 

As the youngest man to ever join the Garrison, and the son of one of the best Commanders in Garrison history, Matt was surely going to be a hero someday. He was a genius, and practically born wielding a sword; his skill was unmatched by any other his age, aside from Crown Prince Shiro. 

The Garrison kept Matt under close watch, paying special attention to his training. He quickly surpassed seasoned soldiers, consistently demonstrating extraordinary intellect and incredible skill with any weapon in the arsenal. The commanders were certain that Matt would grow to be an outstanding soldier, and maybe even become strong enough to take down Emperor Zarkon one day. 

But no one is invincible. 

When Matt left for his very first mission in the field, a scouting trip to the Kerberos region of the Va’Kar Quadrant, no one worried. It was a simple mission with nearly no risk involved, led by the renowned Commander Samuel Holt. But spies are everywhere in the Galra Empire, and Emperor Zarkon knew what could be gained from taking out two of Marmora’s best soldiers in a single attack. 

Matthew Holt, the shining star of the Marmora Garrison, never made it home from that mission. 

Keith grits his teeth, trying to overlook Pidge’s misstep, but finds it hard to forgive the way he spoke Matt’s name so easily. This tragedy is not one to be taken lightly. 

Keith will never forget the way his brother reacted to Matt’s death, looking as though the whole sky had fallen when he received the news. Matt had been Shiro’s closest friend, aside from Keith, and Keith doubts if he will ever be able to forget the first time he saw his brother cry. Even when their mother died, Shiro remained as sturdy as the mountains. He was the stone, unyielding and strong, that kept Keith grounded for all those years, but even he cracked under the weight of too much grief when he lost his closest friend. 

Only Commander Iverson remains unmoved. “Yes, Matthew Holt got in when he was fifteen,” he says, words slow and deliberate. “Let his story serve as a reminder of the cost of arrogance on the battlefield.” 

Something in Pidge’s expression shifts. His defiant exterior wavers, and betrays something much more fragile beneath. It’s small: a tremble in the lip, a twitch at the corner of an eye, a slight shift of the brow. 

Keith, however, is far too lost in his own thoughts to pay attention to the thoughtless boy, and instead takes an involuntary step forward as rage rises within him like bile at Iverson’s careless words. 

_Arrogance,_ Commander Iverson had said. Keith can hardly hear over the roaring in his ears, and it takes every ounce of control to keep himself from lashing out. 

“Commander, let me handle this issue,” he says, words coming out short and strained. He knows better than to antagonize Commander Iverson as long as Keith’s father still sits upon the throne, but he knows that he cannot hold his temper in check much longer. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and he wishes, for perhaps the first time, that he was already king. 

If Keith was king, Commander Iverson would be booted from the Garrison the instant those words left his lips. 

Iverson, unfortunately, looks unimpressed. “Your Highness, perhaps it would be best to leave this matter to those who are more _qualified_ to handle it.” 

Keith takes in a sharp breath, willing his feet to stay anchored in place. His teeth clench so hard it feels as if they could shatter under the pressure. He has been treated like a child for far too long, and he knows he cannot take much more of it. He is the Crown Prince of Marmora, and he intends to be treated with respect. 

He gives Iverson a cold stare, turning the burning flame of his rage into something as frigid and biting as the winter wind. “I said I will handle it, Commander.” He holds Commander Iverson’s eyes for a long moment, weighing his next words carefully. “You may find it prudent to show some respect, if you want to remain in the Garrison once I take the throne.” 

Without another word, he turns away from the Commander and gestures for the boy, Pidge Gunderson, to follow him. He can feel countless eyes upon him as he walks away from the training grounds, and he focuses every ounce of his willpower on keeping his pace slow and sure. The tension doesn’t ease until the training grounds are far behind, and he is certain that no blow will come to his turned back. 

* * *

Keith leads Pidge Gunderson through the grand doors of the palace, thankful at least for the slight warmth of the halls. 

Pidge looks uncomfortable, tilting his face away as if afraid of meeting the prince’s gaze. He shows no signs of awe at being inside the castle, despite clearly being a commoner. Most low-born people would gawk openly at the tall ceilings and opulent tapestries, but Pidge seems entirely focused on avoiding contact with the prince. 

Keith knows he must look foreboding, seething with anger as he escorts the boy through the empty halls, but he cannot fully quell the rage that overtook him earlier. 

He allows himself a steadying sigh, trying to gather his composure. He risks another glance at Pidge, and finds nothing more than a boy, afraid and lost after being thrown out and insulted by the Garrison’s top Commander. Pidge is nothing more than a hurt child, and he is underserving of Keith’s wrath. 

Keith clenches his fists once more, relishing in the strength of the fingerless training gloves that he had forgotten to discard. Taking them off now would be the same as admitting his mistake, and he knows better than to show any sign of weakness or misstep. Besides, they feel like armor, protecting him from the ghosts that Commander Iverson had so foolishly invoked. 

Keith allows his fists to slowly uncurl, deciding to forgive the boy for his careless comment about Matthew Holt, and reminds himself that Pidge is likely too young to fully understand the weight of his words. Keith buries his anger deep, storing it away with his grief and rage and restlessness and fear. He buries it with all of the other unfelt feelings and unthought thoughts, locking it away where it can never resurface. 

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the feeling as their steps echo in the empty corridors of the palace hallways. As the late-autumn chill has begun to seep through the stone walls, the inhabitants of the castle have begun to spend their time locked away within their rooms, huddled in front of the fireplaces for warmth. It will no doubt be a cold winter, and no one in Marmora is prepared to face it. 

Keith wants to groan at the reminder, far too aware that he has run out of reasons to traverse the grounds and wander the gardens. If he continues to venture out now, it will only lead to suspicion. He cannot risk what will happen if his father receives word that his only remaining son is spending his time with the servants. 

Besides, Keith wonders now if he will ever be able to face the stable boy again without recalling the turmoil of their last encounter. He had returned to his rooms that night in a state of distress, and laid in bed awake until the sun had begun to rise above the horizon. He has had much time to think since that night, asking himself questions that he isn’t yet prepared to answer. 

_Focus,_ he scolds himself now, shaking himself from the memory. He knows that there is no use in allowing his thoughts to wander to a place where they should not tread. 

Keith leads Pidge to an empty conference room, often used for one-on-one meetings between officials, and he takes a moment to compose himself as he gestures wordlessly for the boy to sit at the empty table. 

Pidge obliges, taking a seat at the table while keeping his eyes steadfastly trained on the floor. His demeanor is strikingly different from the unabashed arrogance he had displayed in the training grounds, and Keith is struck with the certainty that this exchange will not go easily. While confrontation may not come easily to him, delicate interactions are worse by far. 

He stalls for time, walking around to stand across the table from the boy’s slouching form. He doesn’t sit, remembering a lesson that his father gave him long ago about asserting himself when faced with disrespect. 

He clears his throat, unable to allow the silence to stretch any longer. “Why are you so adamant about joining the Garrison?” he asks, not wasting time with pleasantries. 

The boy finally meets his eyes, and Keith sees that his uncertain demeanor was simply a cover; Pidge’s fiery determination has not eased by even a single degree. Keith silently thanks himself for choosing to stand, aware that he will need all the leverage he can muster to escape this conversation with his pride intact. 

“I want to serve my kingdom in the fight against Zarkon,” Pidge answers, gaze unwavering. The hesitant boy from the hallway has fully transformed into the headstrong young man from the training grounds, and Keith finds himself unnerved by the ease with which Pidge had disguised his anger. 

Despite his unease, Keith responds steadily to the challenge in Pidge’s words. “If you want to serve your kingdom so badly, come back in a few years. The Garrison will still be here.” Keith tries to keep the edge from his voice, reminding himself of the insults the boy had to endure from Commander Iverson and the other soldiers. The boy has surely learned his lesson by now, and Keith sees no need to be cruel. 

“So you admit that you think Zarkon will still be in power in a few years?” Pidge asks. 

Keith blinks, shocked into silence by the boldness of Pidge’s questioning. He finds that he doesn’t have an adequate answer, but knows that he cannot allow his façade to waver. “Emperor Zarkon has been in power for years. We’re not going to be able to stop him immediately,” he counters, unyielding under the heat of Pidge’s burning gaze. 

“Exactly,” the boy responds, looking smug. “Brute force isn’t getting you anywhere. You’re going to need much more than military strength if you want to beat someone so powerful, and I have a talent for gathering information. I can help you.” 

_Who_ is _this kid?_ Keith wonders. He’s arrogant and brash, yet undeniably driven towards some goal. Every aspect of him taunts Keith to learn more, yet encourages him to stay as far away as possible. He half wants to throw Pidge out on the street and be done with him, but the glint behind his eyes keeps Keith rooted in place. 

“My father already has spies,” he says, attempting to remain unconvinced by Pidge’s protestations, “and I don’t see how a child could have more information than the king’s own informants.” 

“I’m not a child,” Pidge insists. “And I know…,” he furrows his brow, searching for a useful piece of information, “I know that the Galra have prisons!” His features settle into a smug smile, sure that he has convinced Keith of his value. 

Keith narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious. “And how did you get that information?” he asks, far too aware that the only Marmoran records of Galra prisons are held within the castle itself. He spent months trying to gain access to those records, so he knows for certain how difficult it is to come across information of that caliber. 

“I know some people,” Pidge answers, noncommittally. The corner of his mouth twists into a knowing smirk, and Keith has a feeling that the boy knows much more than he is willing to betray. 

_A spy._ Of course. It would explain his small stature, and perhaps the glasses. But why would he be so determined to join the Garrison? He could have presented himself to the throne as an informant, and would have stood a much better chance at getting a position within the castle. No spy would be foolish enough to try what Pidge attempted. 

“Why are you so adamant about becoming a soldier, if your real talent is in gathering information? Besides, the crown already knows about the prisons. Unless you have something better to offer, I’m not interested.” Keith looks away, feigning disinterest with practiced ease. 

For a moment, Pidge’s smug smirk looks in danger of dislodging from where it has settled so easily across his features. Before Keith has time to comment on the shift, however, Pidge has composed himself. 

“Only a coward would be afraid to offer himself as a soldier first. I’m not a coward.” Pidge seems unconvinced by his own reasoning, but Keith finds nothing in his statement to protest. 

Keith allows the silence to stretch, letting Pidge’s final words hang heavy between them. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, taking his time in coming to a decision. 

When he opens his eyes, he passes his final judgement. “Go home, Gunderson. Come back when you’ve completed your training like everyone else.” 

Pidge looks as if the floor has fallen out from beneath him. “I-I can’t just go home!” he protests, his smug façade finally slipping away to reveal the desperate child beneath. His eyes are wild, anger warring with hopelessness across his features. The transformation is shocking, and Keith cannot help but feel responsible for the pain in Pidge’s eyes. 

Still, he cannot find it within himself to fully pity the child before him. He would give anything for the chance to leave this castle and sleep peacefully in a loving home. “Why not?” Keith asks, keeping his voice neutral. 

“I just can’t, okay? I can’t go home. You have to let me stay,” Pidge insists. 

Keith struggles to keep his annoyance at bay. “I don’t _have_ to do anything.” 

“So you’re just going to throw me out? Don’t you have a duty to your kingdom?” Pidge’s voice rises in volume as he speaks, agitation growing with each word. 

“What should it matter to my kingdom if I allow a child to fight like a soldier?” 

“Because I have nowhere else to go!” Pidge slams his hands on the table. His eyes widen a fraction at the confession, and Keith pauses. The tension in the room wavers, as if neither is sure how this revelation will change things. 

Before Keith has time to respond, Pidge rushes on. “You can’t just leave me on the street, and I’m not asking to stay for free. Letting me enlist would give you another soldier for your army, and it would give me somewhere to stay.” 

Keith considers this proposition for a long moment. Pidge’s confession shook him, and he finds himself faced with a moral dilemma. Allowing Pidge to join the Garrison would almost certainly be crueler than turning him away, considering the response Pidge had received when he first appealed to Commander Iverson. And yet, Keith cannot justify sending a child away to live on the streets. 

He lets out a long sigh, dragging a hand across his face, before responding. “Fine,” he says, coming to a decision. “You can stay here in the castle and clean weapons and armor for the Garrison. You can have a room in the servant’s quarters, and maybe in five or ten years you’ll be able to train with them.” 

Pidge’s expression quickly turns sour at the offer. “I can’t be a weapons cleaner,” he insists. 

Keith feels irritation begin to build within him once again. His offer was far more generous than anyone could have dared to hope for, and he bristles at the boy’s tone. 

“Why not?” Keith asks, not bothering to mask his growing annoyance. Then, without giving Pidge a chance to respond, he shakes his head in exasperation. “I shouldn’t have even offered,” he says, stepping away from the table. “Find someone else to take pity on you. We’re done here.” 

A wild fire burns within Pidge’s eyes, and Keith knows for certain that the boy will not give in without a fight. “Wait!” he says, standing suddenly from his seat, “I–” 

Keith cuts him off with a sharp look. “Why should I listen to anything you have to say?” 

“Because,” Pidge says, searching in vain for any remaining shreds of his previous eloquence, “because I need to find my family!” 

Pidge’s shout seems to echo off the walls, as if the raw desperation in it is unable to be contained by the small space. Keith and Pidge stare at each other for a moment, expressions wholly unguarded. Keith’s brow furrows in confusion at Pidge’s words, but he cannot ignore the unbridled emotion he had heard in Pidge’s voice. His face remains carefully blank as he nods for the boy to continue. 

Pidge drops his gaze to study the floor. “Commander Holt is my father, and Matt Holt is my brother,” he admits, voice steady but hushed. 

Pidge is left deflated in the wake of his confession, posture slipping as his shoulders try to curl in on themselves, but he nevertheless holds his ground. He keeps his eyes trained determinedly on the ground. 

_Oh_. Grief and pain and longing, previously so well-concealed, threaten to overtake both of them at the revelation. Keith knows far too well how it feels to lose someone. He knows how desperate Pidge feels to find his brother again, but he also knows firsthand how unrealistic the wish truly is. 

The Holt family had always been close. The Commander had been known not only for his skill in battle, but also for his devotion to his family. He took care before every mission, no matter how small, to personally ask the king to protect his family if the Commander should fail to return. The king always returned the request with a promise, although Keith had always doubted his sincerity. 

When Commander Holt’s eldest son joined the ranks of the Garrison, the two became the best team to ever grace the Garrison’s training grounds. They spoke fondly of the family they left behind. Colleen Holt, Matt’s mother and Sam’s wife, was the grounding force in their life, holding the family together while the men of the family left to fight for their kingdom. And the other Holt child– 

All at once, Keith understands. The truth crashes over him like a wave, staggering him with its force. He understands why Pidge is so desperate to join the Garrison, and why he was so afraid of Keith looking too closely at his face. He understands Pidge’s scrawny form, and the baggy clothes he wears. 

Matthew Holt only had one sibling. 

“Pidge,” Keith says slowly, choosing his words carefully, “I knew the Holts. I was there when Matt earned his place in the Garrison, and when his father earned his Medal of Honor. I was there at the funeral.” 

The blood drains from Pidge’s face, easily gathering the implications of the prince’s words. 

“When your father left for the mission to infiltrate the Kerberos Region, I heard him ask a special favor of my father.” Keith speaks slowly, recalling the moment as he speaks it aloud. “It was the same thing he asked for every time he left. He asked for protection for his family, in case he didn’t return. For his wife, and for his daughter.” Pidge finally meets Keith’s eyes as the prince lands his final blow. “I know who you are, Katie Holt.” 

Katie looks, for the first time, truly uncertain. Her anger and determination seep out of her, and she sinks slowly back into her chair as Keith’s words hang in the air between them. 

Women cannot fight in the Garrison. It is an outdated rule, one that Keith hopes to overturn once he is king, but it nevertheless holds true. A woman could be imprisoned, or worse, for trying to trick a commanding officer into allowing her to enlist. It has never before been attempted, and Keith knows how Commander Iverson would delight in coming up with a proper punishment for the girl who insulted him in front of his own soldiers. The truth settles over Keith, and he sees resignation begin to dawn on Katie’s features as she watches the prince piece together this information. 

Katie Holt, no matter how fearsome, has no chance of ever fighting in the Garrison. 

“Why?” he asks, the question nearly unintelligible amid the rush of thoughts clouding his mind. 

Katie Holt meets his eyes, and he sees something achingly familiar within her gaze. “I have to find my family,” she answers, voice low but steady. “I know they’re out there. I know for a fact that the Galra have prisons somewhere, and there’s no way they would just kill the Garrison’s best fighters without gloating about it. My brother and father are out there somewhere, and I’m going to find them." 

She holds herself confidently, and her words are steady and strong, but Keith can see the way her confidence has been shaken. The signs are small, nearly imperceptible, but as glaring as the sun. He spent months finding ways to disguise those own signs within himself. 

Keith knows that look. The determination, the hope, the desperation. It’s the same look that Keith wore as he scoured the castle’s records for any sign of Shiro’s capture, or of his death. He knows the way doubt can settle like a stone, unbreakable and heavy, when grief is left with no outlet and no closure. 

Hope is a pest. Worse by far than grief, and twice as dangerous. It’s the voice that whispers _what if_ during every waking moment, stubbornly refusing to be silenced. It’s the voice that coaxes you on, never letting you give in and move forward as time slips past your worn-out heart. It is grief’s closest accomplice, making the blow land twice as hard when its final threads are finally cut. 

Looking at the child in front of him, Keith knows that he cannot be the one to crush that hope. He cannot be the one to teach this child the meaning of true hopelessness. 

“My offer still stands,” he says steadily, betraying none of his thoughts. “Stay here, in the castle, cleaning weapons and armor for the Garrison. You never know what could happen, _Pidge._ ” 

Katie’s eyes widen at the implications of Keith’s words. Keith holds her gaze, trying to communicate his wordless promise. 

“You’re not…going to tell anyone?” she questions carefully, unable to let her hope overcome her before Keith has given his word. 

“No, I’m not going to tell anyone. Besides,” Keith says with a small smile, “I’m going to need that information you promised. It turns out we have a few things in common.” 

Pidge stutters out her gratitude in a mess of jumbled words, promising to find a way to repay Keith for his silence. He wants to protest, but decides to hold onto any leverage he may have. Katie Holt would make a fearsome foe, and Keith would be foolish to put himself on equal footing with her so easily. 

When the two have composed themselves, Keith summons a servant to escort Pidge to a spare room in the servants’ quarters, taking care to place special emphasis on her need for privacy. It would be difficult to conceal her secret if she had to share a room with someone else. The page accepts this command unquestioningly, but cannot fully conceal his curiosity. 

Keith has no doubt that the details of this encounter will soon reach his father. Gossip spreads quickly between these walls, and his father has eyes everywhere. He sighs deeply, wondering what punishment he will face for hiring a servant without his father’s permission. 

Even still, despite his impending reprimand, Keith’s heart feels lighter than it has in days. 

A fifteen-year-old girl, without any training or formal admittance, has gained access to the highest order of soldiers in the kingdom. Keith allows himself a small smile at her cunning, shaking his head with a sigh as he steps out of the room. 

Hardly three steps into the hallway, however, Keith finds his good spirits crushed. A page bumps straight into him, and hurriedly lets loose a string of endless apologies. Keith wonders if perhaps the disrespect from earlier might actually be preferable to this overt meekness. 

When the page has gathered himself, he clears his throat nervously. “Actually, Your Highness,” he says as Keith tries to step around him, “I was looking for you. The king requests your presence in his study.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally had to do hours of research about medieval warfare jkghafdgsad why am I doing this to myself


End file.
